


Saps and Swishes

by notkingyet



Category: Hail Caesar! (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8606044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: In a world where a certain submarine never arrives, Burt Gurney and Hobie Doyle play a cat-and-mouse game.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollimichele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollimichele/gifts).



> Thanks to [skazka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/) for beta-reading.

Burt Gurney expertly flexed the muscles of his well-toned body to maintain his pose in the longboat despite the rolling waves and the writers' chaotic rowing. Mere minutes from midnight, with the full moon glistening off the sea. He narrowed his eyes to peer through the darkness, picking out the silhouette of two jagged columns of rock jutting out from the sea. Slowly but surely, his beach house came into view behind them.

"Easy..." 

Even as Burt gave the command to his fellow Communists, he couldn't help thinking it was he who needed the reminder most. His heart flung itself against his ribcage with excitement. Outwardly, he kept calm--chin up, chest out, a figure worthy of a Soviet workers' poster encouraging the populace in their fight against the decadent West.

The image of the beach house slipped past the first rock. 

"Easy..." 

Engels wriggled in the crook of his arm. Burt gave him an idle scratch behind the ears, but kept his eyes on the shore. 

The house centered between the two rocks. 

"Here!" Burt declared, his leather-gloved fist clenched in victory. 

The writers flailed their oars in every direction. Out of the chaos came order, the boat settling onto the sea in the position dictated by Burt's Soviet contact. All they had to do now was wait.

Burt checked his watch. Thirty seconds. He smiled to himself and cast his gaze out to sea. Soon the Soviet submarine would rise from the waves to carry him to his heart's home. 

He waited. 

Engels yapped, once. Burt quieted him with a pat on the head. He would miss his little pup dearly. But there was no place for a dog aboard a submarine. The Future had promised to care for him. Herschel in particular seemed fond of him, despite his protestations. 

Burt continued waiting. 

Someone else in the boat coughed. Dutch, perhaps. Apart from that, there was only the lap of the waves against the longboat's hull. 

Burt checked his watch. 

One minute and fourteen seconds past midnight. 

Burt frowned. He'd synchronized his watch with the studio clock before he'd left the lot, and checked it against those in his beach house when he'd arrived. But perhaps they were all fast. He knew the Soviet chronometers wouldn't be running slow. 

Another cough. Definitely Dutch this time. 

Burt kept his gaze focused on the empty patch of seawater ahead. Behind him, he could feel the silent tension rising in the boat, just like the tension rising in the audience back on Broadway when, watching from the wings, he'd stared in horror as the lead flubbed line after line. Only now, it was Burt standing center-stage with no idea of what came next. 

One more minute. He'd give them one more minute, then they'd row back to shore, regroup, plan anew. 

Okay, maybe two more minutes. 

Two minutes became twenty. The sea rolled on. Burt considered leaping face-first into it and letting the sharks have him. 

This time, the cough came from Professor Marcuse. "Comrade?" 

Burt sighed. "Stern all." 

The writers flailed their oars and turned the boat towards the shore. 

As they pulled its hull up onto the sands, the night's silence was broken by sirens. Shortly after, flashing red lights zipped around the corner and six cop cars screeched to a halt in front of Burt's beach house.

Around him, the writers argued in panicked whispers. Burt remained calm. He'd pull through this. He always did. And once he had, he would find Ivan and kill the Soviet traitor himself.


	2. Chapter 2

"Thanks for coming to see me so early, Hobie," said Mr. Mannix, sitting down at his big important desk. "I know you had a late night." 

That was one way of putting it. Even after a day spent flip-flopping from the ranch to the drawing room, an evening spent escorting a lovely lady to a movie premiere, a night spent chasing down Commies, and a pre-dawn morning spent wrangling Baird Whitlock, Hobie Doyle couldn't help a wry half-smile. "Aw, shucks, Mr. Mannix, it weren't nothing." 

"Still, I appreciate it." Now settled, Mr. Mannix folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward to fix Hobie with that eerie, knowing look of his. "Just wanted to go over a few details about what happened with Baird." 

Hobie nodded eagerly. "Sure thing." 

"You went to the premiere with Carlotta Valdez and took her out for dinner at a club after." 

"Yessir." 

"While at the club, you saw Burt Gurney with my attache case." 

"Yessir, same grip. Knew it by my belt on it." 

"We'll get you a new belt. Now, you saw Burt leave, you followed him out, he drove off, you pursued all the way to his beach house in Malibu, saw his car parked, went inside, didn't find him, but found Baird Whitlock." 

"Yessir." 

"And you brought Baird to the Beverly Hills Hotel." 

"And called you straight away, Mr. Mannix," Hobie added with his most eager nod yet. 

"You certainly did, and the studio thanks you for it," said Mr. Mannix, stone-faced. "You did good, kid." 

A little bit o' pride swelled in Hobie's chest. 

Mr. Mannix cleared his throat. "Now, no doubt Thessaly and Thora Thacker are gonna be sniffing around the lot today looking for a story. Don't talk to them." 

Nerves sapped some of Hobie's pride. "I, uh, already talked to 'em last night, Mr. Mannix." 

"What?" Mr. Mannix's eyes flew wide. "About Baird?" 

"No, sir, about _Lazy Ol' Moon_ and Carlotta and me." 

Mr. Mannix relaxed. "Oh. Good. That's fine, Hobie, that's just fine. But nothing about Baird?" 

"No, sir." 

"And nothing about Burt?" 

"No, sir. One of the Ms. Thackers talked to him herself." 

Mr. Mannix grimaced. "I figured. Listen, Hobie, don't worry about--"

The telephone buzz interrupted Mr. Mannix. His secretary's voice crackled through. "Burt Gurney to see you, sir." 

By the time Hobie heard the first half of "Gurney," he was out of his seat and facing the door, braced for a fight. 

"Sit down!" snapped Mr. Mannix, then pressed the call button. "Tell him I'm just finishing up here, Natalie." 

"But sir!" Hobie protested. "He's a commie!" 

Mr. Mannix gave him that inscrutable stare of his, then slowly rose from his desk and walked around to stand nose-to-nose with Hobie. 

"Hobie," Mr. Mannix said in the same serious tone he'd used to tell Hobie about the kidnapping plot. "I'm going to tell you a secret. A big one. Keeping this secret is a matter of national security. Can I trust you?" 

Hobie screwed up his eyebrows in concentration and nodded again. 

"Good." Mr. Mannix leaned in real close. "Listen to me. Burt Gurney is not a Communist. He's a double-agent. He tells the Soviets he's spying on the United States for them, when he's really spying on the Soviets for the United States. He's infiltrated the Communist sect known as 'The Future' on behalf of Uncle Sam. If the Soviets find out he's really on our side, they'll kill him. So it's very, very important that you not tell anyone--especially not the Thackers--that you think Burt Gurney is a Communist. Because then everybody will wonder why he's not under arrest, and they'll realize it's because he's a spy, and then he'll be dead. Because the real Communists will kill him. Got it?" 

Contrary to pop'lar belief, Hobie could follow a complex train of thought like the one Mr. Mannix had just laid out for him. But it still didn't make sense--because Mr. Mannix seemed to be missing the point. Hobie frowned. "But he's a _Commie_." 

Mr. Mannix sighed. "No, he's _pretending_ to be a 'Commie'. Just like you pretend to be a cowboy." 

"But Mr. Mannix, the reason I'm so good at pretending to be a cowboy is 'cause I used to actually be a cowboy. It don't come from nothin'." 

Mr. Mannix sighed a heavier sigh than before. "He's an actor, Hobie. He acts. Don't worry about it. Leave that to me, okay? Just go back to your drawing room and give Mr. Laurentz the performance of a lifetime. And don't talk to the press." 

Hobie kept frowning. Whatever pack o' lies the Commies had fed to Mr. Mannix, they seemed to have stuck good to the side of his brainpan. It'd take a more persuasive man than Hobie to scrape 'em out. He'd have to beat a retreat--for now. "Okay, Mr. Mannix, you got it." 

"Great." Mr. Mannix clapped him on the back and waved him toward the door. 

Hobie opened it to find Burt leaning on Natalie's desk, chatting away about nothin'. Natalie didn't seem to mind. 

As Hobie walked through, Burt glanced over at him with a big, friendly smile. It looked nothing like the cold, hard smirk he'd seen on Burt's face in the club last night. Hobie narrowed his eyes and hurried past. Burt went on into Mr. Mannix's office. 

With Burt out of the waiting area, Hobie slowed at the exit. He looked at his watch--he had about a half-hour or so before he was due on the soundstage for _Merrily We Dance_ \--then back at Natalie. 

"Can I help you, Mr. Doyle?" she asked. 

Hobie shook his head. "No, ma'am. Thank you kindly though. Would you mind awfully if I sat here a spell? I need to ask Burt about somethin'. I promise I won't cause no trouble." 

"No trouble at all, Mr. Doyle." Natalie smiled and went back to her work. 

Hobie sat down and stared at Mr. Mannix's closed door. Burt Gurney might have everyone else in the studio fooled, but Hobie was gonna keep an eye on him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Burt didn't have time to ask why Hobie Doyle was giving him the stink-eye before Mannix whisked him into his office. 

"You," said Mannix--a lesser man would've growled, but Eddie Mannix didn't have to growl, Burt had seen him cow prima-donna producers with nothing more than a look, "are gonna tell me everything. Right now." 

Burt gave him a sharp nod. Compliance was key. Or at least the illusion of compliance. 

"Sit down," said Mannix, retreating behind his own desk. 

Burt sat. 

"And start talking," said Mannix. 

So Burt talked. He told the tale he and The Future had weaved together in the wee hours of the morning, right after Burt had slipped a couple hundreds into the pocket of each policeman who'd showed up to his beach house. It was a hell of a story. If he didn't need it to save his skin, he'd've sold it to the studio as a spec script. 

The story was this: Burt Gurney, as a soft-hearted youth on Broadway, had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Communists. But no sooner had he fallen in than he realized he was in over his head, and so he pirouetted on over to Uncle Sam to turn them in. Uncle Sam, wiser by far than the youthful Burt, had sent Burt back to the Communists as a spy on behalf of the United States. 

(It helped that this was based on the story Burt had told the FBI when he'd actually fallen in with a Communist cell back in New York. What nobody but the Soviets knew was, in the second act, Burt had skipped back over to Mother Russia and promised to be the little bird on her shoulder telling her everything Uncle Sam was up to. It was a delicate balancing act, but as the best dancer on Capitol Pictures's payroll, Burt certainly had balance.) 

Mannix seemed to buy it. Probably because Burt had called his FBI contact after the police left, told them his cover was potentially blown, and asked them to intercede on his behalf with the studio to preserve it. 

"You're lucky DeeAnna Moran decided to elope at three in the morning," Mannix said when Burt had finished his fish story. "Otherwise I'd have to give Thora your Communist ass to keep her quiet about Baird Whitlock's casting couch experience. And I know you're her source on that. Don't try and weasel out of it." 

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Mannix," said Burt, throwing on a humbled-yet-hopeful smile for good measure. "Me and the Thackers are through. You have my word." 

"That and fifty cents will buy me a cup of coffee." 

Burt let out some of his genuine glee in a forced nervous laugh. "By the way, Mr. Mannix--who'd you send to my place to pick up Baird?" 

"Didn't send anybody. Hobie Doyle took it upon himself to be a true American hero." 

Burt raised an eyebrow. He didn't often get the chance to feel genuine surprise. "Huh. Isn't that something." 

"It's absolutely nothing. Now get back to the set." 

"Don't need to tell me twice." Burt rose from his chair with thirty years of dancer's grace, spun a salute at Mannix, and waltzed out the door. 

He waltzed right into Hobie Doyle. 

"Gosh, I'm sorry, Mr. Gurney!" said Hobie, brushing Burt off where he'd crashed into him. "Didn't mean to bowl you over, there, just wanted to ask a favor." 

Burt blinked down at him. The sour look he'd received on his way into Mannix's office had totally disappeared from Hobie's face. Now it was all pearly whites and boyish dimples. Burt's suspicions weren't helped by the way Hobie patted him down like a Brooklyn pickpocket. He delicately picked up Hobie's wrists and removed his hands from his person, then returned Hobie's billion-watt smile. "Sure thing, kid. What kind of favor?" 

Before Hobie could answer, Burt spun him around to sling an arm around his shoulders as he frog-marched him from the lobby, winking at Natalie as he passed. 

"It's, uh," Hobie said as they left the building, trotting to keep up with Burt's dancing strides. "It's sort of a big favor, Mr. Gurney." 

"Call me Burt." 

"Well, Burt--you've worked with Mr. Laurentz before?" 

Burt's well-practiced balance kept him from stumbling to a halt. "I have." 

"Great! 'Cause Mr. Mannix and Mr. Schenk have got me working with him now--"

Burt snapped his fingers as if just remembering. " _Merrily We Dance_ , right?"

"That's right, and--well, gosh, I fit into a drawin' room about as well as an elephant fits into a shoebox. I ain't got a clue what Mr. Laurentz wants from me. Can you help?" 

Burt slowed to a graceful stop and turned to look Hobie full in the face. The kid looked back with the same innocent, guileless expression as before. Burt knew better than anyone that no one was truly innocent. But the old adage still rang true--keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. 

Hobie Doyle couldn't be a day over twenty-five, if that. Young. Impressionable. With a smile that charmed millions. And from what Burt knew of his background, muscles enough to wrangle a raging bull into submission. Brute strength and a blank mind. Burt could work with that. After all, Hobie couldn't turn in Burt as a queer Communist if Burt turned him into one first. 

Burt grinned his magazine-cover grin. "Sure thing. I gotta get to set now, but we could meet up tomorrow and I could give you some tips. Lot eight, say, five o'clock?" 

Hobie nodded. "Thanks, Mr. Gurney!" 

"That's 'Burt' to you, kid." Burt clapped him on the shoulder and spun off, still grinning. 


	4. Chapter 4

The first step in Burt's plan was to find out just what this Hobie kid could do. So when filming wrapped for the day on _Swabbies!_ , Burt caught a showing of _Lazy Ol' Moon_. 

The moon might've been lazy, but Hobie Doyle wasn't. The movie's slow start picked up into a classic protect-the-ranch-from-rustlers plot, which allowed a fantastic display as Hobie's character leapt through twirling lassos and flipped handstands in the saddle. 

Burt was pleased to find, coming out of the theater and catching up with some stagehands at the Rusty Scupper, that all the talents displayed in _Lazy Ol' Moon_ were pure Hobie Doyle. No stunt doubles. No dubbed-over singing. Hobie Doyle was the real guitar-playing, rope-twirling, back-flipping deal. 

Which would make the next phase of Burt's plan much, much easier. 

He skipped out of the Rusty Scupper around nine and drove to Laurence's house in Palm Springs. His knock at the door prompted a barely-audible exclamation of frustration, which surprised him. The steps approaching the door hit the floor harder than Burt had heard Laurence's light loafers do in almost a decade. The Laurence Laurentz who opened the door did so with so much force the backdraft almost pulled Burt into the house. 

"What--" Laurence began to snarl. Then his tone and expression softened into something more abashed. "Oh. Burt. Forgive me, I didn't recognize you." 

"Seems like I need a more distinctive knock," said Burt, turning on his thousand-watt smile. "Can I come in?" 

Usually the question was just a formality between him and Laurence. But today, Laurence hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I've heard some troubling rumors about you." 

Burt raised an eyebrow. "Rumors?" 

"Communism," Laurence said, his expression as flat as the word. 

Burt chuckled. "That's not news to you, is it? It's certainly never stopped you from going to Gene Kelly's parties." 

"I've known your sympathies for some time, yes. But I've never before heard them on the tongues of extras and cameramen." 

Shit. Burt covered his discomfort with a hapless shrug. "So there's rumors floating. So what?" 

"If you can't keep your Communist sympathies quiet, how can you be trusted to keep your liaisons under wraps? I've also heard rumors about myself and Baird Whitlock." 

Double shit. Burt winced. "Those've been around forever, Laurence, c'mon. Let me in? I'll make it up to you." 

He put on his best puppy-eyed look, the one that'd gotten Laurence to take him along from Broadway to Hollywood in the first place. Laurence's brow unfurrowed. 

"Fine," Laurence sighed, stepping back to let Burt into the house. 

Burt went straight to the living room and plunked down on the settee hand-selected by William Haines. He laid himself out, not quite sprawling--sprawling was for straightforward seduction, not when your partner still harbored suspicions--but leaning back to bare his throat and spread his thighs. 

Laurence looked him over critically. For a moment it looked as though he'd refuse the obvious invitation and sit on another chair entirely. Then desire overcame good sense, evident in the particularly self-deprecating sigh he uttered as he sat down next to Burt, though still as far away as the limits of the settee allowed. 

Burt hung one arm over the back of the settee, but knew better than to try touching Laurence just yet. No matter how badly he wanted to smooth the defensive hunch out of that world-weary shoulder. "Heard you're working with Hobie Doyle." 

Laurence gave a mirthless bark of laughter. 

Burt matched it with a wry half-smile. "Going well, then?" 

"It's miserable, and you damned well know it." Laurence doubled over to bury his face in his hands. "His line reading is beyond wooden. He struts around set like there's a horse between his legs." 

"Sounds promising," Burt joked. 

Laurence didn't bother acknowledging it. "Joan Van Vechten already tried to quit, and there are plenty more ready to follow her. Beardley Auberon is visiting the set tomorrow. If he hears what that cowboy has done to his script--" 

"You're not giving up on the kid, are you?" 

Laurence sighed. "I just don't know what Schenk sees in him." 

"I do," said Burt. "Singing, riding, rope-twirling, headstands, backflips--"

"Circus tricks!" Laurence snorted. 

"Athleticism," countered Burt. "And the studio didn't have to pay for any of the training--he came straight from the ranch with it. With just a little more investment, they'll have a real triple-threat. Singing, dancing, acting--"

Laurence snapped his head up. 

"Hobie Doyle cannot act," he proclaimed, biting off the end of each word. 

"I'd like to see you saunter onto set and be a cowboy. Find out how your accent fares in Texas." Before Laurence could protest, Burt pressed on. "They told this kid to put down the spurs and throw on a penguin suit with maybe ten minutes to spare. He read the script in the car over to the lot. And he gave it the best shot he could. He wants to make you happy, Laurence, any idiot can see that. It's not his fault he doesn't know how." 

Laurence held Burt's glare for a moment, then released the tension with a huff. "Regardless of who's at fault, I can't work with him." 

"Because you're not a good enough director to coax natural talent into a polished performance, is that it?" 

Laurence choked. "Not good enough--!"

"That's what you're telling me. And here's what I'm telling you: you need to go to Mannix--"

"I already have!" 

"No, you went to demand they take Hobie off the picture, which we both know they're not gonna do. So instead, this time, you're going to tell them you're happy to work with Hobie--as any sensible man would be--but the boy needs training. Which he does. You're gonna ask for a dialect coach, which they'll give you, if they know what they're doing. And then you're gonna ask for me." 

"What for?" 

"To teach him how to walk with his knees in the same post-code." 

Laurence stared at him, then laughed. 

Burt allowed himself a sympathetic smirk. "Between me and the coach, we'll turn him into something you can use. Trust me, by the end of the shoot, you'll love the kid." 

Laurence raised an eyebrow. "Sounds to me like you already do." 

"Jealous?" 

"Should I be?" 

Burt let a slow, seductive smirk creep across his lips. "I like you jealous. It makes you work for it." 

"Oh, stop it," snapped Laurence, though the smile he bit back told Burt he didn't mean it. He laid a warm, fine-boned hand on Burt's thigh. "Someone ought to remind you who's the director and who's the talent." 

Burt leaned in, biting his lip. "By all means." 

The resulting kiss, and all that came after, was well worth the effort. 


	5. Chapter 5

Only his secret mission kept Hobie from callin' it quits his second day on the _Merrily We Dance_ set. People might say what they liked about Mr. Laurentz--and Hobie'd heard some pretty blue rumors--but he'd built his career on quality pictures. Hobie didn't want to let him down. Yet letting him down seemed to be the only thing Hobie couldn't fail to do. 

"That was fine, Hobie, just fine," said Mr. Laurentz after their eighth take on the confrontation between Monty and Allegra. Mr. Laurentz smiled as gently as he ever did. But Hobie wasn't an idiot. He knew people didn't hiss through their teeth when they felt pleased with what they'd just seen. Everybody else on set seemed to feel the same. Hobie wished to hell they'd all just come out and say what they thought of him. Clearly nothing good. 

"If there's anything you'd like me to do different, Mr. Laurentz--" Hobie began. 

"No, no, nothing at all my dear boy," Mr. Laurentz crooned through his clenched jaw--and Hobie appreciated the talent it must've taken to pull that off. "It's just, perhaps, when you're interrogating Allegra on the subject of Biff's valise, consider looking her in the eye?" 

Hobie found that hard to do when he could practic'ly feel the hatred coming off her in waves, in and out of character. Rumor on the set was she'd expected to be playing opposite Mr. Gable and was none too happy to find herself facing off against what she called a "cowpoke." Hobie couldn't blame her. Not with hot shame filling his guts after every failed take. And he knew he was failing them. No matter what Mr. Laurentz tried to say. 

Still, if Mr. Schenk wanted Hobie to make this picture, he'd make this picture. And more importantly, stay on studio property long enough to keep an eye on a certain sneakin' commie. 

The next day, Hobie steeled himself to stroll onto what felt more like a battlefield than a sound stage--and was stopped by Mr. Laurentz wearing what looked like a genuine smile for once. 

"Hobie, dear boy! I have splendid news for you. May I introduce Ms. Skinner?" 

Without further ado, he stepped aside to reveal a middle-aged woman in a pressed blouse and pencil skirt. Hobie wondered when they'd added a schoolteacher to the script. 

"Hello, Mr. Doyle," she said in that bizarre accent people only seemed to have in pictures. 

"Howdy," said Hobie. 

Mr. Laurentz twitched. But Ms. Skinner merely smiled. It seemed a kindly smile. Hobie relaxed a little. 

"Ms. Skinner is your new dialect coach," Mr. Laurentz continued. "She'll be helping you with your... pronunciation." 

"With speakin', like?" said Hobie, flicking his gaze between the two of them for clarification. 

"Precisely," said Ms. Skinner. 

"I'll leave you to it," said Mr. Laurentz, starting to walk away. 

"But Mr. Laurentz--!"

Mr. Laurentz turned, and for a split-second, Hobie saw his face without the smiling mask. It didn't look good. 

Hobie swallowed. "Don't I, uh, need to get into costume?" 

Mr. Laurentz's false smile broadened. "Oh, no need, dear boy! You'll be working with Ms. Skinner all day. We'll shoot around you, never fear." 

Hobie took that as a sign he should start fearin'. 

Mr. Laurentz strolled off. Ms. Skinner beckoned Hobie away and led him back to his own trailer. 

Hobie'd filled his trailer with the usual stuff--coils of rope, leather polish--but it'd become clear to him how useless it all was on the set of a drawing room drama. Just about as useless as him, in fact. Embarrassment washed over him as he saw how it must look to Ms. Skinner. He rushed to pull up a chair for her in the cramped space. "Sorry about the mess, ma'am--"

"Oh, don't worry about that," she trilled, sitting down with the same friendly smile. "It's a welcoming atmosphere. Is that you there?" 

She lifted her chin towards the photo Hobie'd tucked into the corner of his mirror, of himself doing a handstand on Whitey's back. 

"Yes, ma'am," Hobie mumbled, tucking his own chin into his chest like a turtle. He wished he were a turtle. It'd be nice to have a shell to hide in. 

"That's incredible! You're quite a talent, young man." 

She wasn't the first to tell him so, but after the last three days he'd had, Hobie definitely needed to hear it again. "Thank you, ma'am." 

"You're very welcome. Now, sit down and tell me all about your role in this production." 

Hobie hesitated. He got the impression from Mr. Laurentz and everyone else on set that he didn't know the first thing about his own character or the plot he'd got mixed up in or a damned thing about anything, no matter how hard he studied the script. He didn't want to make an even bigger fool of himself by getting it wrong in front of Ms. Skinner. 

But she kept smiling that friendly smile at him, and looked awfully expectant while she did it. 

Hobie sighed. "Well, okay then." 

He told her how he, Monty, was sweet on Allegra, but Allegra kept a-carryin' on with Biff behind Monty's back, and all the while Dierdre carried a torch for Monty. It took almost an hour to get through it all. Ms. Skinner nodded and smiled kindly the whole time. She didn't balk at nothing, not even when Hobie tripped up and called Biff's valise a "grip" twice. 

"Such drama!" she declared when he finished. "May I ask you a personal question?" 

"Shoot," said Hobie. 

"Were you raised in West Texas?" 

Hobie blinked at her. "Uh, yes, ma'am." 

She hummed to herself. "Yes, I thought so. Nasal twang, flattened vowels... Now, Hobie, do you know what my purpose is?" 

"To help me sound like I'm not from West Texas?" 

Ms. Skinner looked aghast, then let out a trilling little laugh. "Goodness, you're sharp! But no, not quite. I'm not trying to eliminate your accent entirely. Just round it out a little, make it somewhat less distinctive. If you can learn to speak in a manner more similar to your co-stars--just for the purpose of this production--then I believe it may be easier for you to focus on the emotions behind your lines, rather than your pronunciation." 

Hobie knotted his brows. "Y'think that'll make Mr. Laurentz happier with me?" 

"It certainly won't hurt." 

Hobie sighed, then squared his shoulders. "Well, all right, then." 

Six hours later, Hobie left the _Merrily We Dance_ set and headed over to Stage 8 to meet up with the aforementioned red menace. The ROLLING sign over the door was out, so he didn't bother knocking before he pushed the doors open and wandered in. 

A sound like hail on a tin roof filled his ears. The cameras sat pushed-off to the side, unmanned and neglected, yet a half-dozen fellas in sailor suits kept tapping their toes over the sound stage. As Hobie drew closer to them, he picked Burt Gurney out of the bunch. Before Hobie could think of anything to say or do, Burt spotted him in turn. Burt smiled and waved him in, turning the gesture into a spin that launched him into the next phase of the dance. 

Hobie got within twenty feet of the stage and hung back to watch the rehearsal. Six men in tight white duck trousers showed off exactly how they'd developed such taut musculature below the belt. The striped V collar of their shirts accentuated the contrast between their broad shoulders and narrow waists. Hobie's throat went dry. If he didn't know better, he'd've thought he was still wearing his too-tight tuxedo collar. He'd hankered after men in chaps back on the ranch, but he never knew he had it bad for sailors, too. Learn somethin' new every day, he supposed. 

He reminded himself that at least one of the six sailors was a Communist. Maybe more'n one. 

All Hobie knew about Commies was that they were a lazy bunch of good-fer-nothin's scavenging for handouts to live like fat cats off the sweat of real laborin' men. But none of the sailors, with dripping brows and heaving chests and shoes striking the floor hard enough to splinter it, looked particularly lazy. Even Burt Gurney, who Hobie knew for sure was a pinko, seemed to work awful hard for a commie. Apart from his welcoming smile to Hobie, he had on the same grim look he'd worn at the nightclub. Set jaw, narrowed eyes--pure grim determination. Hobie supposed he ought to be afraid of it. But he didn't think the peculiar curling heat in his belly was fear. 

The dance went on. Then Burt backflipped into the arms of another dancer, cartwheeled out of it, slid to center stage and struck a pose. The other dancers posed around him in a human frame. 

Hobie started clapping, then slowed to a halt as he remembered he was the only person in the audience. 

Burt's camera-freeze grin warmed up. He dropped his pose. The other dancers followed his lead, breaking off into their own conversations. Burt himself trotted over to where Hobie stood. Sweat shone on his brow. His broad chest heaved. Hobie swallowed hard. 

"How's it going, Hobie?" Burt asked. 

"Finer than a frog's hair split four ways." The flicker of confusion on Burt's face reminded Hobie of his recent elocution lesson, so he tried again. "Uh, I mean, well. It's going well. How are you?" 

He felt like a fool, "enunciating" his words the way Ms. Skinner had suggested, like forcing cannonballs through a hose. But Burt seemed to get it.

"Ms. Skinner working out for you?" Burt asked with a smile Hobie recognized from magazine covers. 

"Yeah, she's awful nice. Got me talkin' with a pencil 'tween m'teeth." Hobie frowned. "How d'you know her name?" 

"Oh, Laurence and I are old pals. He told me the whole story. Said he was anxious to give you every possible advantage. And Edith Skinner is the best dialect coach in Hollywood." 

As he talked, Burt clapped a hand on Hobie's shoulder and started walking him--steering him--back out the way he'd come. Hobie didn't particularly mind being steered, provided he had a warning of it. Heck, if Burt weren't a Commie, this sorta thing might give Hobie a case o' weak knees. His legs felt a little jellified as it was, Communist or no Communist. 

"That's good," said Hobie. "So... how d'you know Mr. Laurentz?" 

"Broadway." 

"Broadway?" Hobie echoed. "What a coincidence--that's where this darned picture's from. Originally speakin'. 'Course it was a stage play back East, but y'know what I mean." 

"Yeah, heard it was a heck of a hit." Burt had led Hobie over to a bench by a side-table with a pitcher of water and some glasses. He poured a tall glass, drained half of it, then tipped the pitcher inquiring-like in Hobie's direction. Hobie shook his head. Burt shrugged, set the pitcher down, and drained the rest of his glass. 

"So!" Burt said when gulped the last of it. "How can I help you help Laurence?" 

"I wish I knew. He won't tell me." 

Burt frowned. "That doesn't sound like him." 

"I mean--he's pro'ly tellin' it loud an' clear to a Broadway feller like yourself, but I can't understand a word of it. He keeps sayin' every take is 'perfect' or 'wonderful', then suggests a thing I 'might' do different. An' it's always small. An' you'd think that'd be good, but that's just the problem. It's too small to make a difference, so I keep a-fumblin' take after take after take an' gettin' nowhere. I wish he'd just tell me straight out what he wants." 

As Hobie spoke, Burt nodded in an understanding fashion, his frown slowly disappearing. 

"You know what the trouble is, Hobie?" he asked when Hobie'd finished. "You're too easy to work with." 

Hobie blinked at him. "That sounds like the exact opposite of my problem, Mr. Gurney." 

"Call me Burt. And I'm serious. Laurence is used to dealing with divas and prima-donnas. Volatile personalities. So he directs delicately. But you're not volatile--you're as stable as they get. Trouble with that is your thick skin can't feel a feather-light touch, so you've got no idea what Laurence wants from you. Follow me so far?" 

"I faller. Uh, follow." 

Burt's smile twitched wryly. "So tell him you can take it." 

"What, just walk up to him and say it straight out?" 

"You want him to be honest with you, you gotta be honest with him first. That's how it works. Reciprocity." 

It sounded like the kind of ten-dollar word you'd find in the _Merrily We Dance_ script, but Hobie got the gist. "Okay, Mr. Gurney, if you say so." 

"Burt." 

"Right, okay, Burt." Hobie gave another uncomfortable swallow. It didn't seem right, being on first-name terms with a Communist. And it took a lot of self-reminding to remember Burt Gurney was a Communist, and that was why Hobie was talking with him. Not for any other reason. Definitely not on account of how well he filled out that sailor suit. Just keeping an eye on the commie. Speaking of Commies... "How'd you get from Broadway to Hollywood, Burt?" 

Hobie told himself it was a necessary question. An important part of his investigation would be figuring out where and how Burt had gotten these crazy pinko ideas into his good ol' American head. Was Broadway full of Commies, too? Or had a bad apple in Hollywood spoiled Burt's bunch? There had to be an outside source--after all, people weren't born Communists. Probably. 

Burt's easy grin remained. "That's Laurence again. I was doing some work on Broadway. Choreography assistant, that kind of thing. Then the lead choreographer quit a production--claimed it wasn't worth his time, since it was just one ballroom scene and not a full musical. So I got bumped up a rank and got friendlier with the director." 

"Mr. Laurentz." 

"That's right. We saw each other here and there after that, went to the same parties, watched each other's work. Couple years went by and we became friends. He thought I had what it took to make it on the west coast, so when he skipped town for Hollywood he convinced me to tag along." 

"Huh." Hobie tried to hide his disappointment at the lack of an answer to the Communist question. "That's awful good o' him." 

"Like I told you, Laurence is a swell guy. Now, can I ask you something?" 

Hobie nodded. "Shoot." 

"Did Laurence mention anything about your gait?" 

"What, my walkin'? No, I don't think so." A sinking feeling settled into Hobie's stomach. "Why, is there somethin' wrong with it?" 

Burt winced. "Shit. I knew I should've kept my mouth shut." 

"Hell no, if I'm doin' somethin' wrong, you gotta tell me! How else am I s'posed to do a good job on this picture?" 

Burt blinked at him. "You weren't kidding about being thick-skinned. All right, stand up." 

Hobie jumped to his feet. 

Something about the corners of Burt's mouth seemed amused by that. "Can you walk back and forth for me? Ten strides?" 

Hobie strutted up and down, over-conscious of Burt's eyes on him. 

"Okay, that's enough," said Burt. When Hobie stopped, he added, "You see those tiles on the floor?" 

Hobie looked down to see linoleum squares, about a foot wide. "E-yup." 

"Can you try walking again, but this time, keep in line with one of the rows, so your feet stay inside of it with each step?" 

"Using it to measure the width, like?" 

"Exactly." 

Hobie gave it a shot. It felt constricting, but no more than his tuxedo collar. "How's that?" 

"Try it again, little less stiff." 

Hobie tried again. And again. Burt added some more hints--pretend there was a baseball between his knees, rather than a horse--and soon he didn't have to hint anymore. Hobie had it. For the first time since he crept onto the _Merrily We Dance_ soundstage, he'd got something right. He felt like he could dance with as much glee as all six sailors combined. 

"Thanks awfully, Burt," said Hobie as Burt walked him to the studio car waiting to take him home. 

"No sweat, kid," Burt replied. "Come back anytime. Tomorrow if you like. I'll tell you some stories about Laurence--might make him less intimidating." 

Hobie didn't think that was possible, but he appreciated the offer all the same. It wasn't until he was in the car and well on his way back to Palm Springs when he remembered his mission. 

"Communist," he muttered under his breath, watching the palm trees whiz past in the dark through the windows. "Communist, Communist, Communist." 

It was a hard line to remember. Especially given the way Burt looked in that damn sailor suit. 

And the way Burt looked at Hobie. 

A light went on in Hobie's head. If he could get Burt to trust him, it'd be much easier to get proof of his Communist sympathies. And to get Burt to trust him, he'd have to get close to him. Very close. In Hobie's experience, men who wouldn't speak more'n a grunt in the saddle got awful chatty in their bunks after a roll in the hay. 

Hobie grinned to himself. Perhaps his conflicting desires weren't so conflicting after all. 


	6. Chapter 6

After teaching Hobie to walk the walk, Burt headed to the Rusty Scupper. Specifically, the alley behind it. Burt leaned his back against a spot on the brick wall and lit a cigarette. And he waited. 

Hours passed. Burt added a fair number of cigarette butts to the alley's collection. A couple household names wandered through on their way to studio-unapproved liaisons. The kitchen boy came out around three to throw the night's trash in the dumpster. He gave Burt a hopeful look, but Burt avoided his gaze. He wasn't here to shove the young man up against a wall and show him the best night of his life. He was here to meet up with the Soviet agent known as Ivan. 

Usually these meetings were arranged beforehand. But Burt hadn't heard from his contact since the night the submarine failed to arrive. He wanted answers, damn it. He deserved them. And the only lead he had was haunting all the places he'd "bumped into" Ivan before. 

By four in the morning, Burt gave up on a chance meeting. He flicked his last still-burning cigarette away and wandered off to catch a nap before he had to be at the lot. 

Filming on _Swabbies!_ was going well--especially considering Burt had never intended to finish it. Still, even though he'd planned to be halfway across the world by now, he'd thrown his heart and soul into the few scenes he'd done before the submarine's scheduled arrival. Any work worth doing was worth doing well. The philosophy had gotten Burt from Brooklyn to Broadway and from Broadway to Hollywood. Now it'd given him a solid beginning to a project he unexpectedly had to complete. 

Today they were filming the scene where Burt's savvy sailor character discovered the cross-dressing ingenue who'd snuck aboard the Navy vessel to escape her domineering parents. Her cabin-boy disguise wouldn't fool anyone in the audience, though it was supposed to fool everyone on the ship. Of course, if it were a good enough disguise to fool the audience, the movie wouldn't stand a chance of reaching theaters. Musical comedy could only excuse so much. Burt Gurney falling head-over-heels for what walked and talked like a strapping young lad? That was out of bounds. But Burt Gurney making moon-eyes at a gal whose bosom certainly didn't belong on the teenage boy she was pretending to be, that was all right. Just so long as her true identity was revealed to him before they locked lips. The audience never had to know that the actress, Sara Burnbright, had about as much romantic interest in Burt or any other man as Burt had in her or any other girl. 

"Cut!" Arne Seslum called out. "Miss Burnbright, you are kissing handsome sailor boy! It's exciting! Be exciting!" 

"Then tell him to excite me," Sara countered, cocking her head in Burt's direction. But the corner of her lips twitched in a suppressed smile. 

Arne sighed. "Burt, you have found lovely young lady on ship! Best possible surprise! Show her how excited you are to meet her!" 

Burt didn't bother to disguise his chuckle. "You got it, Mr. Seslum." 

"We go again!" 

This time, Burt concentrated on the costume rather than the person inside it. The take seemed to satisfy Arne, even if Sara did an exaggerated spit-take after he yelled "Cut!" 

"It's not that bad, is it?" Burt asked her as the crew wrapped up around them. 

Sara picked her teeth with her pinkie. "It's pretty bad, Burt." 

"Haven't heard anyone else complain." 

"That's 'cause they can't talk with your tongue halfway down their throats." 

Burt, who hadn't slipped her a lick, grimaced. She broke down into whoops. 

"You coming down to Maxwell's with us?" she asked when she could breathe again.

Burt shook his head. "Nah, promised Hobie Doyle I'd help him figure out Laurence Laurentz." 

Sara raised her famously full eyebrows. "Good luck with that." 

"He's not a half-bad kid." 

"I meant with Laurence. See you tomorrow, then." 

No sooner had Sara strutted away than Hobie sauntered in--though with his knees considerably closer than they'd been the other day. He tipped his hat to Sara as she passed. She paused, turning to watch him as he continued on towards Burt, then raised her brows even higher at Burt behind Hobie's back. Burt ignored her. 

"Howdy, Burt!" 

Burt grinned. He didn't have to force it, which should've been a good sign, but caused a worry of wrinkle in his brain nonetheless. "Hiya, kid. How'd it go today? Did you tell Laurence to quit going easy on you?" 

Sara, still standing halfway to the door behind Hobie, waggled her eyebrows. Burt continued ignoring her. 

"I did," said Hobie. "You shoulda seen his eyes--bugged right outta his head. But it seems t'be workin'. I think Miss Van Vechten hates me less." 

"She doesn't hate you," Burt assured him, though everyone within earshot of her trailer had heard her screams of frustration the day Hobie'd been cast. 

"It's okay, I don't mind none. Can't hardly blame her for it." Hobie gave a sad little half-smile--dimpled, calf-eyed, hapless. Something in Burt's chest did an uncomfortable flip. 

"You sure you don't want to come downtown, Burt?" Sara called. "You can bring your friend, nobody'd mind." 

Hobie shot a look of confusion at her, then back to Burt. 

Burt barely had time to turn his scowl at Sara into a smile for Hobie. "I'm sure. Some other time, Sara." 

The smirk that crept across her face showed she thought she knew more than she did. But she didn't press the issue. Just gave both men a wrist-twirling wave and left. Finally. 

"If you've got someplace to be, I don't mind--" Hobie began. 

"What?" said Burt. "No, no, it's fine, just a last-minute reminder of a standing invitation. I'll catch up with them later. Right now, we gotta turn you into Clark Gable." 

Hobie swallowed hard. Burt tried not to watch the motion travel down his smooth, slender throat. "Seems like a tall order." 

Burt clapped him on the shoulder. "Trust me, kid, by the time we're done, Gable's gonna come to me and ask me to turn him into Hobie Doyle." 

From there, they got to work on Hobie's gait. He'd made great strides since their last meeting. Now it was just a matter of learning to move through a space--opening a door without looking like he was hobbling into a saloon, sitting down on a divan like it was a divan and not a barrel. And above all, the art of the slouch. Hobie, straight-backed citizen that he was, had a heck of a time with the subtle difference between slouching and hunching. 

"Don't roll your shoulders forward," said Burt, demonstrating. "Just let 'em slide to the side. Casually. Lean into it. You're not guarding yourself--" Burt hunched again. "--you're opening yourself up." He stretched his spine out along the curves of the sandbag pile they were using as a settee for the purposes of this demonstration. "Showing that you don't care who or what comes at you. Totally at ease." 

Hobie, on a pile opposite Burt's, imitated him. Burt had to give the kid credit, he was a passable mimic. He could certainly splay his legs with the best of them. Burt tried not to stare at the well-worn denim pulled tight over muscular thighs. 

That night, those thighs remained in the forefront of Burt's mind as he waited under the overpass for a Soviet agent who never showed. 

#

At the end of the next day's shooting on _Swabbies!_ , Hobie surprised Burt by replacing his "Howdy" with a "How do you do?" 

Burt balked. Sara sniggered. Arne Seslum, preoccupied with making arrangements for the lighting of tomorrow's shoot, didn't notice. 

"Aren't you a gentleman?" said Sara. "Sorry I ran out on you the other day. I don't think Burt ever introduced us. Sara Burnbright. You must be Hobie Doyle. "

She stuck out her hand like a studio executive. Hobie took it, blinking with surprise as she shook his. Burt knew the expression well. Few men expected Sara's grip. 

"Can you do me a favor?" she asked, her voice extra-sweet. "Can you convince Burt to quit working for five minutes and come with the rest of us down to Maxwell's?" 

Hobie's gaze flicked between the two of them. "I'm afraid you're overestimating my talents of persuasion, Miss Burnbright." 

"Surely not!" Sara cast a look of mock astonishment Burt's way. 

Normally, Burt didn't mind her teasing. But there was more at stake here than another conquest. He shook his head disapprovingly. 

She ignored it. "Please, Hobie? Please let Burt come with us?" 

"Miss Burnbright, I'm awful sorry, I'd love to come with but--"

"You hear that, Burt?" Sara crowed. "He'd love to come! How can you say 'no' to that face?" 

It was certainly a charmer. But Burt remained firm. "We've got a lot to work on, Sara. Some other time." 

Sara sighed. "Fine. If you change your mind, you know where to find us." 

"Nice to meet you, Miss Burnbright!" Hobie called after her. 

She spun and waved to him as she skipped out. 

Truth told, under any other circumstances, Burt would've gladly dragged Hobie down to Maxwell's with him. It'd be great fun to show him off to the usual crowd. But under the current circumstances--a missing Soviet submarine, a silent Soviet contact, looming production deadlines, and a cat-and-mouse game with a handsome young all-American cowboy--Burt had to decline. Fortunately, Hobie didn't seem too disappointed. 

Burt had Hobie walk up and down the empty stage with a script binder balanced on his head. As he walked, they talked. Hobie's method of interrogation was about as subtle as a brick to the face, but Burt didn't see any harm in talking about Sara Burnbright's dancing speed of five hundred taps per minute, or the infamously competitive version of charades played at Gene Kelly's house parties, or how Joan Van Vechten doted on a hideous feral tabby she'd found on the studio lot a few years back. More important was the information Burt got from Hobie's questions. The kid was flailing, but he'd also stopped dropping the G's from the ends of words--"I was wond'rin'" now sounded like "I was wondering." Burt found he missed the twang. The prospect of a sanitized, studio-approved version of Hobie Doyle troubled Burt. The fact that it troubled him was even more troubling. 

"Hey, Hobie?" said Burt as Hobie handed the script binder back to him at the end of the night. "Can I ask you a favor?" 

Hobie brightened. "Anything!" 

"Don't let 'em change you." 

Hobie raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "Thought that was the point of all this." 

"Changing your image, sure, changing your line reads and your screen presence. But don't let 'em change _you_. You get what I mean?" 

Hobie's brow remained furrowed, but he nodded. "Sure, Burt. I get'cha." 

Burt smiled, though the genuine relief he felt at hearing that twang again just made him worry all the more. 

That night, Burt parked out on the Trancas beach with Engels asleep on the passenger seat beside him. He watched the waves roll in from dusk to dawn, with nary a Soviet contact in sight. 

#

It went on for weeks. Mornings and afternoons, _Swabbies!_ Evenings, Hobie Doyle. Nights, stood up by the USSR. Burt thought he might be going nuts. And he could only blame the Soviets for half of it.

Hobie Doyle had dark hair curling down over his forehead, a jawline that could slice through steel, and a laugh like a joyful jaybird. The appeal to teenaged girls across America was obvious. But they didn't see how he stuck with a project he was obviously miscast in. How he put in hours upon hours after hours to perfect himself to fit the role he'd been given. How he didn't once complain that it wasn't his job or his place. He asked for criticism--and more importantly, took it like a champ and used it to improve himself. Hobie Doyle didn't give up. And he never let that boyish optimism drop while he did it.

That, plus the tight little ass in busted up blue jeans, drove Burt to distraction.

"D'you got a dog, Burt?"

"What?" said Burt. He'd been idly soft-shoeing as he listened to Hobie talk about his day on the _Merrily We Dance_ set. They'd gotten to the point where the coaching had taken a back-seat to the conversation. It still fed into Burt's grander plan--get close to Hobie Doyle, suss out if he could be converted to the cause. "I mean, yeah, I do, why?" 

"Just heard some folks talkin' around set and got curious. They say he's a li'l feller. What's his name?" 

Burt took a moment to consider. He had, perhaps, been a little too free-wheeling when it came to christening the fluffy little puppy he'd picked up to make his Malibu beach house feel less empty. Then again, if Hobie was as all-American as everyone assumed, he probably wouldn't get the reference. "Engels." 

Hobie, to Burt's relief, looked blank at that. "Huh. Well, it's certainly a name." 

Burt snorted. "What about you? Any pets apart from Whitey?" 

"Whitey's more of a partner than a pet," Hobie demurred. "Naw, I ain't had a dog in a good long while. Had a cattle dog on the ranch back home, though. Called her Skip. Clever bitch." 

Burt, having never heard a stronger word than "hell" pass Hobie's lips, had a moment of surprise before he realized Hobie meant the word in the animal husbandry sense. 

Hobie didn't seem to notice. "She just showed up on the front porch one morning after a heckuva blue norther, ready to work. Awful friendly for a wild thing. Must've been somebody else's before she found us. Anyhow, she'd follow me around the ranch as I did my chores. I was about twelve or so. We had a workin' pony that my brother an' I used to play with when the work was done--I'd lead the pony around on a rope while my brother rode, he bein' the younger one an' all. Well, about a week of watchin' me do that every day, one morning we're walkin' past the pen, and she slips on under the fence, takes the lead in her teeth and starts leadin' the pony around herself!" 

Burt couldn't help smiling as he listened to the story, both at its contents and the easy, meandering way Hobie told it. At this, he laughed. 

"And the pony don't know any better, so he just goes with it. Didn't have to train either of them. They got to be best o' friends." Hobie grinned. "So--what kind of a name is 'Engels', anyhow?" 

Burt crashed back down to earth with a jolt. 

"Family name," he answered before he had time to think. He rushed to change the subject. "Did you leave a sweetheart behind in Texas?" 

Hobie laughed. "Aw, heck naw. Ain't nobody looked at me twice afore I got into pictures." 

Burt found that hard to believe, but accepted the explanation nonetheless. 

That night, strolling through Pershing Square, Burt met several sailors and a very persistent interior decorator--but no Russians. 

#

A week later, Arne Seslum called "Cut!" for the last time on the _Swabbies!_ set. No sooner had he done so than Sara Burnbright cornered Burt. 

"Maxwell's," she declared, standing nose-to-nose with him and poking a finger into his chest. "Wrap party. Bring your cowboy. I'm done taking 'no' for an answer." 

Burt forced a chuckle. "Can I at least ask him if he wants to come along first? Or were you planning on a kidnapping?" 

"Go ahead and ask," Sara retorted, stepping back. "Here's your chance." 

She nodded over his shoulder, and Burt turned to find Hobie loping in. 

"Were you waiting for the ROLLING sign to go out?" Burt asked as he approached. 

"Yeah," Hobie admitted with his bright smile, "but not too long. Howdy, Miss Burnbright." 

"Howdy," Sara echoed, imitating his accent. Burt made a face at her, but Hobie didn't seem to mind it. 

"You got any plans tonight, Hobie?" Burt asked. 

Hobie shook his head. "Nope." 

"Great," said Burt. "Let me give this uniform back to the costume department and I'll meet you out by my car." 

Hobie's eyebrows shot up eagerly. "Where're we headed?" 

"Downtown LA," said Burt, already trotting backwards out of the soundstage. "Gotta celebrate wrapping this thing up. See you in ten!" 

"H'okay," Hobie called after him, grinning. "You're the boss!" 

His grin was matched by Sara's vaguely predatory smirk behind his back. Burt didn't let it worry him. Tonight would be the acid test for Hobie Doyle. And if the looks he'd given Burt over the past month and a half meant anything, he'd be game. 


	7. Chapter 7

Riding in Burt's car should've been casual. Just two buddies on their way to a night out on the town. But sharing such a small, closed-in space soon turned into a test of self-restraint. Hobie tried to keep his eye on the scenery zipping past the windows, yet his gaze kept slipping over to Burt. How his hand roved over and around the gear shift, pushing and pulling it into place. How his muscular thighs clenched as he switched between gas, brake, and clutch. How his massive shoulders and thick arms spun the wheel as he expertly weaved in and out of traffic on the way to their destination. 

Hobie gave thanks they were headed to a club. He'd need a stiff drink after a ride like this. 

Burt made a couple passes at small talk, but Hobie's dry throat wasn't up to answering. So when they reached downtown LA, they pulled up to park in silence. Burt jumped out of the car first and trotted around it. Before Hobie could put a finger on the handle, Burt had the door open for him. 

Hobie blinked up at him. "Uh, thanks." 

"Anytime," Burt grinned. He clicked the door shut behind Hobie and threw an arm across his shoulders to steer him to the club. The weight and warmth of his grip almost buckled Hobie's knees. 

The sign for Maxwell's didn't look like anything out of the ordinary. Not quite as swank as anyplace the studio recommended for Hobie and Carlotta's dates, but normal. 

Once inside, it continued to look normal. Smoke from dozens of cigarettes floated up to the ceiling. Small clusters of people in chairs around little round tables, some sitting in booths, others on stools at the bar, and still more on the dance floor hoppin' to the tunes of a five-man jazz band with a woman in a lotta furs croonin' in a low rasp. None of 'em looked like Commies--but then again, neither did Burt. Low lights made further investigation difficult. 

"Burt! Over here!" 

Hobie whipped his head around towards the call and saw Sara Burnbright had grabbed a corner table and was waving at them through the commotion. The table looked plenty crowded already, but that didn't stop Burt from bringing Hobie over. 

At the table sat Sara, another gal, a couple of familiar-looking gents, a kid who looked a little younger than Hobie himself but wore his suit like he was ten years older, and--

"Carlotta?" Hobie gasped. 

Carlotta looked no less surprised to see him, though she responded with a smile. "Hobie!" 

"Scoot over now, c'mon--" said the kid in the suit with a voice like a woman of the world. Hobie did a double-take. The kid raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. 

The table crowd made just enough space for Burt and Hobie to sit down--provided they didn't mind having their thighs squished up against each other. 

"Hobie," said Sara, "you remember Gus and Walt?" 

She motioned to the two familiar-looking gents, who smiled and waved at Hobie. 

"Uh," said Hobie, distracted by the atmosphere in general and the blazing heat of Burt practically in his lap in particular. 

The gent on the left--Gus--gave a wry half-smile. "Try picturin' a sailor suit." 

"Oh!" Hobie laughed. "From the set! Sorry--"

"There we go," said Sara. "And this is Cheryl--" the gal beside her, a pretty little sharp-nosed blonde, "--Barbara--" the kid in the suit, who Hobie belatedly realized was a full-grown woman, "--and of course you and Carlotta are 'fixin' to be friendly'." 

"Sure are," said Hobie, flashing Carlotta a grin. 

Carlotta giggled, though she still looked a little nervous. Barbara put an arm around her shoulder. Rather like the arm Burt had put around Hobie's. 

Walt stood from the table. "Drinks for anyone? Hobie? Burt?" 

"Whisky," said Hobie. 

"Vodka martini," said Burt. 

Hobie immediately wished he'd asked for something a little more cosmopolitan than straight whisky, but nobody else seemed to mind. Walt left, and the conversation around the table went on like Hobie could only assume it'd been going before he and Burt arrived. Studio gossip, mostly. It seemed Cheryl was somebody's secretary, and Barbara worked in costuming. Hobie tried to follow, but the close confines of the club, the music and the noise and the smoke and the sheer amount of people packed into such a small place, it all went to his head. And having Burt sat close beside him, tall and handsome and full o' muscles radiating warmth like a furnace, didn't help. 

Hobie let his distracted eye wander over the club. The dance floor was a happenin' place. Folks of all sorts swung each other around to the tune of "Anything Goes!" A man gave a very tall woman a daring dip. Nearby, another man spun around under the arm of... another man... and then went back to dancing cheek-to-cheek with him. 

Hobie blinked. 

Yes, definitely both men--not a gal in a suit like Barbara--although there seemed to be another gal in a suit across the club at the bar, kissing a more feminine dame. 

Hobie's eyes widened as he gave the entire club a closer look, piece by piece. Two fellas neckin' in the corner there. Two dames on the dance floor pushin' each other's skirts halfway up their thighs. Another very tall woman at the bar, with a strong jawline and heavy makeup, leaning over it to flirt with the bartender. Two more... people... in tightly-tailored suits to show off their ambiguous curves, kicking their heels up in front of the band. And the band themselves, all gents, except for the singing lady who Hobie wasn't quite sure was a lady anymore. Definitely wearing an evening gown and feather boa, but Hobie was starting to doubt those trappings meant anything here. He squinted hard at the singer, trying to determine gal or guy, then realized what he was doing, decided it weren't none of his business who was or wasn't a dame, and sat back to enjoy the show. Particularly those two fellas neckin' in the corner. 

"See somethin' you like?" 

Hobie jerked to attention and discovered Gus giving him a knowing, half-lidded look across the table. 

Hobie gave him a cheeky grin right back. "An' if I do?" 

There was a beat of silence, then the table burst into laughter. 

"Then you're in the right place," said Burt, squeezing Hobie's shoulder. 

A thrill ran down Hobie's spine. He shot Burt a startled glance. But Burt's eyes were on Walt, returning to the table with everybody's drinks. Gus caught him up on what he'd missed while at the bar. Hobie kept looking around. He knew his eyes must be the size of saucers, and his head felt like a swinging door for all the back-and-forth whipping it did, but he couldn't help it. Everything happening in the club was a sight. And heck, if he played his cards right, he might get to kiss a feller of his own. 

As Hobie watched the evening unfold and half-listened to the conversation at the table, he took some rumors he'd heard and put them together into a thought. "Does Laurence Laurentz ever come by?" 

The stares he got in return made him think he'd said the worst, but then the table as one collapsed in convulsive laughter. 

"Can you imagine?" Cheryl half-shrieked. 

"Oh my God, he would die," Walt gasped, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Just, step in, heart attack, boom. Done." 

Hobie chuckled along weakly. "Sorry, I just heard..." 

"He's really more of a Crown Jewel gentleman," said Barbara, giving Hobie a knowing look. " _They_ don't let anybody in without a driver's license." 

"Yeah, and no kissin'," added Gus. 

Sara rolled her eyes. "What a bore." 

"Eh, it's all right." Burt shrugged, the motion rolling through Hobie as well. 

"Laurence isn't here, Burt," said Sara. "You don't have to pretend it's not the dullest place in the world." 

"I mean it," Burt insisted over the others' chortling. "Nothing wrong with wanting a quiet place to sit and drink without the vice cops breathing down your neck." 

"A little neck-breathing can be sexy," said Walt, and that set everybody off again. Burt laughed along with them, then suddenly stopped, his eye on something across the room. 

"Everything okay?" Hobie asked as Burt stood up. 

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," said Burt, not looking at him. "Just gotta go say hello to a friend. Be right back." 

And with that, he was gone. Sara quickly filled the space Burt left behind, but while she was an awful pretty dame and a lot of fun to boot, she wasn't the same. Least not to Hobie. 

Hobie watched Burt weave his way across the crowded club towards a man sitting at the bar. He tapped the man on the shoulder. The man turned, his curious look changed to delight, and--he kissed Burt. Square on the lips. 

Hobie's gut twisted. He didn't know why. It wasn't like he'd ever asked Burt to kiss him. Or made any kind of hint that he'd be open to the idea. And besides, he shouldn't be kissing Commies. But none of that made a lick of difference to Hobie's stomach. "Who's that?" 

"Who?" said Sara, whipping her head around to follow Hobie's gaze. 

Gus and Walt craned their necks to get a better look. Barbara glanced over, quirked an eyebrow, then turned to Hobie. 

"That's Harry Hay," she said, her voice flat. 

"...Oh," said Hobie. 

"You've got no idea who that is, do you," said Barbara. 

Carlotta gave Barbara a look. 

Hobie felt rather like he was reliving his first day on the _Merrily We Dance_ set, where everyone else knew by instinct what was wanted from 'em, while Hobie stumbled around like a fool. "No, sorry." 

"Aw, jeez, Barb!" Cheryl squealed in protest. "Not everybody's keepin' up with politics! Don't mind her," she said, patting the back of Hobie's hand comfortingly. 

"I don't mind, honest," said Hobie, glancing nervously back at Barbara. 

But Barbara, to Hobie's surprise, also didn't seem to mind. Her look softened just a pinch. "Harry's put together a society." 

Hobie tried to keep his eyes from flying wide. Communists. It could only be Communists. "What's it called?" 

"The--" Barbara said something that sounded like "machine", but with too many syllables. Hobie furrowed his brow and tried to listen harder over the noise of the club as she continued to explain, his ears pricked for any mention of Commies or Soviets or the Red Menace. 

"Come to a meeting if you like," said Walt. "They're all right." 

"Cathartic," Gus added. 

Hobie's eyes shot around the table. They were all in on it. He supposed he oughta feel afraid, but all he felt was glee. Still, nobody'd said the "C" word yet. He opened his mouth to ask direct. The band struck up "Too Darn Hot". 

Gus sprang to his feet and grabbed Walt's arm. "C'mon!" 

"I just got this!" Walt protested with a laugh, holding up his drink. 

"And it'll be here when you get back! Dance with me!" 

Walt gave an exaggerated groan and rolled his eyes at the table. "We spend the whole damn day dancin' and now..." 

"Quit bein' such a wet blanket, would'ya? Christ!" 

Walt laughed and let Gus drag him off to the dance floor. "You kids comin' or what?" 

Hobie glanced at Barbara, who he still needed to pump for information--then at Burt, who was still talking with the man at the bar and sitting awful close with his hand on the small of the man's back--then at Barbara again, and Carlotta next to her. He held out his hand to Carlotta. "May I?" 

Carlotta seemed startled--which was odd, since she and him had danced plenty in the past few weeks on their studio-approved dates--then turned to Barbara. "Do you mind?" 

Barbara leaned back and blew a ring of smoke. "Go ahead." 

Carlotta grinned at her, then jumped up, snatched Hobie's wrist, and dragged him out onto the dance floor. 

Hobie'd been an okay dancer when they'd first gotten friendly. After some weeks of seeing her, he thought he might be starting to get good. She sure didn't seem to mind his kicks and twirls. For the most part he let her lead. After all, she did this for a living. And watching a pretty gal like Carlotta shimmy and laugh in delight while he held her hands and gave her a whirl--well, that was a damn good time. 

"Mind if I cut in?" 

Carlotta smiled and nodded at somebody over Hobie's shoulder, then that somebody spun Hobie around with one hand on his shoulder and another on his waist. It took Hobie a second to recognize Walt. 

Hobie blinked. "Howdy!" 

Walt grinned, and then Hobie was whisked away in the arms of an equally skilled but very different dancer from Carlotta. Hobie's heart and stomach soared alike as he and Walt flew about the dance floor. Every once in a while he got a glimpse of Carlotta, dancing first with Gus, and then Gus was replaced with Barbara--and as fancy as her suit looked sitting down, once she got to her feet, a person might mistake her for Fred Astaire. Which Carlotta seemed to like just fine, if the kisses she snuck in between dance steps meant anything. 

"Excuse me." 

The sound of Burt's voice made Hobie's heart skip a beat. He spun a little too fast towards it. Two sets of hands caught him and kept him from crashing into other dancers--Walt on the left, Burt on the right. Hobie looked up to Burt. 

For a half-second, Burt had on his look of heavy concentration, hard as an anvil. Then it melted away into a smile. "May I have this dance?" 

Hobie grinned up at him. "Heck yeah y'can!" 

Walt laughed and stepped back--only to be swept up again by Gus passing by. Hobie watched 'em go until a touch on his jaw distracted him. He whipped his head around to Burt. 

"Sorry," said Burt. "Too forward?" 

Hobie snorted. "Hell naw!" 

And with that, he took all the courage he had and put it towards grabbing the thick, muscular waist he'd been staring at covertly for the past month and a half. 

Burt laughed and took hold of him in turn--and Lord, if dancing with Carlotta were a delight, and dancing with Walt were a dream, then dancing with Burt Gurney was pure delicious desire. Burt's hand on his hips alone set Hobie's loins aflame. When that hand traveled down to palm his ass, Hobie had to restrain himself from jumping straight up into Burt's arms. Between the heat and the noise and the crowd and the smoke, Hobie didn't know where his head had gone, but any self-restraint he'd walked in with had long since disappeared. Hobie was flipped, dipped, and tossed from hand to hand, spun away and pulled back, more a prop than a person, but a well-tended prop. The kind of prop that was held tight and close in big, strong hands, and never got so much as a scratch. He wriggled his way in close to Burt, closer than he'd been with Walt or Carlotta or anybody since he'd stopped sharing a bedroll with other ranch hands. The broad expanse of Burt's chest pressed tight against his own, smothering him in warmth, thrumming with life, filling his lungs with the scent of honest sweat. He found his thigh slipping between Burt's legs, and then out again, as Burt soft-shoe'd around him, their limbs rolling over and through each other in a smooth, singular dance. His dick strained against the zipper of his jeans, and he didn't care, not here. Not with Burt Gurney in his arms, and with Hobie free to manhandle all the muscle he wanted. 

The music slowed, leaving them free to just sorta lean against each other and sway. Hobie found his hips hitchin' up anyhow, searchin' for friction against Burt's thigh. Burt stopped him with a hand on his ass holding him in place. The gentle yet firm touch burned like a brand. Hobie looked up, Burt's face inches from his own. Just a little spring from his toes and he could kiss him. He had half a mind to do it. 

And then the band struck up "Lullaby of Broadway". A low groan ran through the crowd. Burt pulled away. 

"What?" Hobie gasped, his voice creaking like a dry pump. "What's wrong?" 

"Closing time," said Burt, glancing over the crowd. He seemed to be searching for something. Or someone. Probably Harry Hay. 

Hobie frowned--bordering on a scowl. "Well, heck, just 'cause we can't stay here don't mean the night's over, does it?" 

Burt whipped his head back around to face Hobie, blinking in surprise. 

"Sorry," said Hobie, "but I thought we had something here. Did I misconstrue?" He'd learned the word from _Merrily We Dance_. That script was coming in mighty handy. 

Burt still wore a surprised expression, but delight crept into it. "No, no I don't think so. You wanna get outta here?" 

"Damn right I do." 

Burt laughed and threaded his arm through Hobie's to lead him out of the club. 


	8. Chapter 8

"Where to?" said Burt. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift. 

Hobie, who'd focused all his attention on not slamming Burt against a wall on their walk back to the car and kissin' his brains out, took a moment to redirect his concentration. He had an idea of what he wanted, and it seemed an awful lot to ask, but you couldn't win big if you didn't risk big. "Your place." 

Again, it seemed to surprise Burt. Hobie had a moment of panic, thinkin' Burt might be catchin' onto his plan, but Burt just chuckled to himself and put the car in gear. 

They drove off in silence. What'd felt natural in the club seemed impossible out here in the wider world. Hobie knew how to get a ranch hand into the sack. He didn't have a clue how to bed a movie star. 

But, he reminded himself, sitting up a little straighter under his seat belt, Hobie Doyle was a movie star, too. 

He spent the rest of the ride pretending the dark stretch of highway from LA to Malibu was totally unfamiliar to him. Tried to forget how it'd felt to tail Burt's car to the beach house, knowing one of America's shining stars had kidnapped a fellow actor for ransom on behalf of the USSR. 

It occurred to Hobie in a flash--had Baird Whitlock been tricked into comin' out here the same way? Had Burt wined'n'dined him and invited him back to his place, only to spring his Communist trap? 

Hobie found it hard to sustain the cold fear. Especially since, when he'd found Baird, Baird seemed perfectly happy with how everything'd turned out, and a little reluctant to leave. 

And heck, if Hobie did end up kidnapped same as Baird, he'd definitely have proof of Burt's Communist ties. 

They pulled up to the house. Hobie put his newfound acting talents to good use pretending it was the first time he'd seen it. "Nice place." 

Burt smirked and got out to open the car door for him. He slung an arm over Hobie's shoulders, same as before, and led him up to the house. 

As they walked in, Hobie thought back to how he'd felt walkin' into the _Merrily We Dance_ drawing room for the first time--the awe, the wonder, the fear--and used the memory to arrange his face how he thought he might feel if he hadn't already busted into this very room and discovered it belonged to a Communist. 

Burt didn't seem to notice. He strode off across the thoroughly modern sitting room to the bar. "Drink?" 

"Sure," said Hobie. Maybe wettin' his whistle would help him get a grip on the situation. 

Glasses clinked, somethin' got poured, and Burt returned with two shot glasses. He held one out to Hobie. 

Hobie took it. The drink was clear. Hobie sniffed it. It smelled like nothing. He waited until Burt knocked back his own shot, then imitated him. Whatever it was burned, but not as bad as moonshine whisky. 

"What was that?" Hobie asked when he thought he could speak without rasping. 

Burt smirked again, taking the glass back. "Vodka. Another?" 

"No, thanks." 

Burt shrugged and set the glasses down. "A tour of the place, maybe?" 

"Maybe." Hobie bit his lip, considerin'. Then he noticed how Burt's eyes immediately focused on him bitin' his lip, and bit it more deliberately. "Or we could just sit a spell." 

"Sure." Burt gestured broadly to the living room, as if to say "knock yourself out." 

Hobie strutted boldly to the couch--the only two-seater in the place--and flopped down onto it, slouching just like Burt had taught him. Legs splayed, head back, neck exposed. Not a care in the world. Though Burt could probably see his pulse pounding in his throat. 

Burt sucked in a breath, then followed, fitting himself into the parts of the couch left over from Hobie's slump. He slung one knee over Hobie's own. 

Hobie's dick jumped in his pants. 

Burt laid a hand on his thigh, the warm weight of it burning through the denim. 

Hobie licked his lips. 

Burt locked eyes with him, looking like he wanted to say something. But he didn't. 

So Hobie, with his strainin' dick and thumpin' heart and flutterin' stomach, leapt up like a bat outta hell and kissed him. 

His lips smothered Burt's gasp. But Burt's surprise didn't last long. No sooner had Hobie taken in the sensation of a man's mouth underneath his own--warm, wet, unexpectedly soft--than Burt's strong arms came up to clench around Hobie's shoulders, locking him in place as he devoured Hobie's mouth in turn. From the waist up, Hobie had about as much freedom of movement as a roped steer. But from the waist down it was all fair game. He wriggled into place until he straddle one of Burt's thighs, then ground his dick down on it. Burt groaned into his mouth, his own hips bucking up in imitation of Hobie's. His hands slid down Hobie's back to grab his ass and help him along in his friction-seeking mission. 

"Fuck," Burt hissed when Hobie reluctantly pulled back to breathe. 

Hobie would've replied in kind, but it was all he could do to get air, with Burt's broad chest heaving under his own, and Burt's proportional dick throbbing against his thigh. He wanted to show that dick just what a west Texas ranch hand could do. But... 

"Lemme up," Hobie gasped. He hoped Burt wouldn't judge him for it--Burt, who was probably used to beddin' movie stars with perfect bodies, perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect everything--but if they were gonna do this than he had to know now. After all, in Burt's own words, if Hobie wanted honesty, he had to be honest first. Reciprocity. Besides, Carlotta hadn't seemed to mind. "I gotta tell ya somethin'." 

"What?" said Burt, letting him go and sliding out from under him a little to sit up.

Hobie opened his mouth. "I wanna suck your dick."

Burt's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't seem unhappy with the notion. "Okay."

"But--" Hobie steeled his nerve. "--to do that, I'm gonna hafta--y'see, I took a tumble at a rodeo, and--I got falsies."

Burt's eyebrows swept back down again to knit together. "False--what?"

"I don't got teeth," said Hobie. "Least not the uppers." 

Burt looked confused. Hobie didn't understand how. The explanation didn't get much plainer than that. At least not the verbal one. 

Hobie sighed and scooted away from Burt to the other side of the couch. He fixed his eyes on the carpet as he reached into his mouth to pull out the dentures. He kept his lips shut once they were out. His tongue ran over his empty gums as he stared down at the plate in his hand, putting off the moment when he'd have to look Burt in the eye and showed him what that steer had left him with. He wasn't usually this shy about it--Carlotta could swear to that--but--

He sucked in a breath, then turned back to Burt with a forced, close-lipped smile. 

Burt looked... concerned. Not disgusted. Which was a relief. 

Hobie opened his mouth. "See?" 

The lights in the living room were low. Maybe low enough to keep most of the situation in Hobie's mouth outta Burt's sight. 

Burt cocked his head to the side. His hair'd gotten mussed while they were kissin' and flopped down over his forehead as he squinted, lendin' him a handsome ruffian air. Not that he needed the help. "Huh. Does that hurt?" 

"Naw. When the dirt first hit 'em, sure, that banged like a sonuvabitch, but it's all healed up by now." 

"Good," said Burt, and leaned in to kiss him before Hobie could even think about putting his teeth back in. 

It was sloppier now, but if Burt didn't mind, then Hobie didn't mind neither. He fumbled around behind himself to balance his teeth on the arm of the couch and free up his hands to run through Burt's straw-blond hair again. Then he dropped 'em down to grope that nice thick bulge in the crotch of Burt's jeans. 

Burt pulled away with a groan. "Please--"

"On it, boss." 

Hobie dropped to the floor and got on his knees. He caught a glimpse of Burt's expression as he went down--wonder borderin' on glee--and returned it with a toothless grin before he gave all his attention to the growing predicament below Burt's belt. Burt helpfully spread his legs wider so Hobie could unbutton his jeans, unzip his fly, push his t-shirt up over his toned stomach, and pull out his dick. It had a heft to it, just as Hobie had hoped. He wrapped his hand around its length to feel the soft, warm skin over the steel rod Burt apparently smuggled in his jeans. He gave it a couple pumps--grinned again at the way Burt's breath hitched as he did so--then bent forward to swallow it down. 

It'd been too damn long since he tasted dick. He gave a happy li'l hum at the welcome return of the familiar sensation--mouth full, throat about to be. Above him, Burt choked-off a moan. Hobie planted his palms on Burt's thighs to brace himself and felt the powerful muscles flex and shudder under his hands as he bobbed his head. Burt cursed a blue streak over it, wriggling in his seat but not bucking into Hobie's mouth, not fucking his throat like Hobie wanted, so Hobie let the head of his dick hit the back of his throat and then opened it up to swallow. If his lips weren't already occupied, he would've grinned at the way Burt's fist clenched in his curls. Still, Burt remained a gentleman, and let Hobie set the pace. So Hobie set a galloping one. He relished Burt's incoherent vocal response. 

Then the moanin' and groanin' resolved into recognizable words. "Wait, wait, wait, stop--"

Hobie didn't need to be told twice. He pulled Burt's dick outta his mouth with a sloppy _pop_. "Somethin' wrong, boss?" 

"No, no, that was--fuck--that was amazing, but--" Burt gasped. It seemed Hobie'd stolen his breath away. Hobie's mischievous grin grew broader. Burt shook his head and tried again. "I wanna come with you inside me." 

Hobie'd sure as hell never heard that one before. "Oh." 

"Is--is that okay, d'you want that, or--?"

"Yessir," Hobie rushed to say. "That's mighty fine by me." 

A light, fluttering smile came over Burt's flushed features. "Great. I'm thinking bedroom might be better." 

Hobie pushed himself up to his feet. "Lead on, boss." 

Burt stood--not botherin' to tuck his dick back into his pants--slung a now-familiar arm across Hobie's shoulders, and steered him along a dark wood-paneled hallway, giving sideways kisses to his face and neck all the way down. Without even lookin', Burt pushed open the door at the end of it and revealed a movie star's bedroom, complete with king-sized bed. Plenty big enough for two fellers. Hobie had just enough time to think that, then Burt had him by the lapels for another ferocious kiss and used it to drag Hobie down onto the bed with him. His big, strong hands slipped under Hobie's clothes and shucked 'em off like they were no more'n corn husks. Hobie retaliated by tearin' off Burt's jeans in turn, tuggin' 'em down off his meaty ass and muscular dancin' thighs. Then he dove in to kiss Burt again, but Burt veered off to lean down over the side of the bed and rummage around for somethin' under it. 

"Here," Burt said when he came back up, pressing a jar of Vaseline into Hobie's hand. 

Hobie frowned at it in confusion. Then it dawned on him. Yeah, Vaseline would prob'ly make a better grease than spit and wishes. He hurried to unscrew the lid. 

No sooner had he got it off than Burt dipped his hand into it, then lowered that hand to Hobie's twitchin' prick. Hobie's hips jerked up into Burt's slippery fist. Burt grinned down at it, biting his lip in that way that drove Hobie wild, and kissed him again. 

Then he flopped back onto the bed. Hobie flopped down after him. A little more wrigglin' and rearrangin' had the both of 'em lyin' on their sides, back to front, with Hobie as the big spoon around Burt. 

Hobie's dick nestled into the valley between the twin rolling hills of Burt's round ass. He could hardly stand it--bein' so close to another feller, after years of Hollywood press releases and public relations dates and running around from shoot to shoot without hardly a minute to himself, and sure as hell no time to take a guy aside and suggest they might have a warmer night if they shared a bedroll, because there weren't any more bedrolls, there was only hotels and big lonely bedrooms in empty city apartments. But here, with Burt's broad back snuggled right up against his own narrower chest, the nape of Burt's thick neck just beggin' to be kissed--Hobie flung his arm around Burt's front to pull him even closer and kissed his dang neck, salty with sweat from dancin'. 

Burt moaned, pushing his ass back against Hobie's hips. Hobie refrained from tellin' him to hold his horses and instead squeezed his hand down in between their bodies to line up his dick with Burt's hole. 

"Lemme know if I'm a-goin' too fast now," Hobie whispered, his throat too husky to do much else. Then he pushed in. 

The Hollywood boys were onto something--Vaseline made the going a heckuva lot easier than spit. Hobie's dick slid right into Burt like a hot knife through butter. Hot muscle squeezed him every inch of the way. He fairly swooned at the pulse of Burt's heartbeat around his dick. "Sweet Jesus--!"

Burt laughed, the sound rumbling through Hobie's own ribcage. Then he did something inside himself to clench down around him and Hobie thought he'd nearly die. He couldn't hardly do more'n whine into Burt's big, meaty shoulder, his hips givin' little jerks without him tellin' 'em to. 

"Go on, boy," Burt whispered, craning his neck around to do so. "Come on, now, fuck me good--"

Hobie's dick throbbed just from the whisperin'. He steeled himself and pulled back for a good, long thrust. 

Burt yelped. "Fuck, yes--!"

"Is that how y'like it, then?" Hobie grinned into Burt's shoulder and set off like he was ridin' a buckin' bronco, hips slammin' into Burt like a drill seeking oil, deep and hard. The slick heat inside Burt drove Hobie wild--Burt's groans of pleasure drove him wilder still--he couldn't keep this up, he wouldn't last, his balls were already tightenin'--he released his bear-hug hold around Burt's chest and groped his way down to that thick dick, started pumpin' it in time with his own scattershot thrusts. Burt turned his face into the pillow to muffle his wild shout as his spunk spilled out over Hobie's hand, and not a half-second after came Hobie's own shot, like a geyser of black gold spilling out over into an earthquake. He poured all he had into Burt and kept fuckin' into him 'til his own shrinkin' prick twinged in protest. Then he lay there, buried inside him, holdin' him tight in a double-armed hug, his lungs full of the scent of both their sweat, the night silent except for their breathless gasps. He couldn't do anythin' more in his fucked-out haze. Then Burt shifted in his arms, and Hobie loosed his hold just enough to let Burt roll over and kiss him. 

"You ride all the cowboys like that?" Burt murmured. 

Hobie laughed softly. "Naw. Jus' sailors." 

Burt chuckled and kissed him again. 


	9. Chapter 9

Burt had planned to wait until Hobie fell asleep, then sneak back out into the night to hunt down his Communist contact. Talking with Harry Hay at Maxwell's had been a long shot in that direction--contrary to HUAC's belief, American Communists rarely connected with their Russian counterparts. But sometimes you knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a gal who knew a guy, and the guy at the end was an agent named Ivan who offered you a chance to star in Soviet cinema. And promised you a submarine to get you there. And then fucked off, leaving a bunch of bleeding-heart idealists as your best chance of ever finding him again. Burt didn't mind the bleeding-heart idealists. He was one himself, or used to be. But he could only nod along to so many drafts of a petition that would go absolutely nowhere in Congress before he wanted to strangle himself with his own ascot. So the plan became: leave Hobie Doyle in bed, find someone who knew anything about the Soviet agent known as Ivan, and get to Russia. 

Despite this plan, Burt drifted off to sleep clutching Hobie Doyle to his chest. Friends close, enemies closer, indeed. 

Engels's yaps jolted Burt awake. He rolled over to find his alarm clock showing half past ten, and himself alone in bed. 

The stab of loneliness in his chest surprised him. He shrugged it off. Hobie Doyle was nothing more than a means to an end. It was for the best that he'd left before Burt woke up. Spare them both an awkward morning-after. And spare Burt his distracting presence. The day would be better spent cruising around and visiting all his old left-wing friends. Nevermind that Burt would've rather spent it hopping back into the saddle--so to speak--with a fine young cowboy. 

Engels's yapping grew more insistent. Burt sighed and got up to let him out, shrugging on a dressing gown. 

As he opened his bedroom door, a new sound joined Engels's yaps: the hiss and spatter of something being fried in a pan in the kitchen, and a low Texan drawl very kindly asking Engels to be a good boy and shush. 

Burt's heart leapt as he strode down the hall. He reached the kitchen in time to see Hobie--standing at the stove in just jeans and a t-shirt, no socks, no shoes, his dark curls sticking up in all directions--bend down to give a pinch of whatever he was cooking to Engels. Engels snatched it out of his hand, gulped it down, and immediately resumed jumping up to put his paws on Hobie's knee and whine. 

"Engels," said Burt in a warning tone. 

Both Engels and Hobie turned to face him. Engels yipped and ran over. Burt gave him an absent-minded scratch behind the ears. 

Hobie grinned, his teeth back in, and saluted with the spatula. "'Mornin', Burt!" 

Burt found himself smiling back before he could put any kind of spin on it--seductive, coy, knowing, affectionate. It was an honest smile. He had no idea what it looked like to Hobie. "Didn't know you cooked." 

"Aw hell, it's just a scramble. I'd be a sorry excuse for a bachelor if I couldn't throw that much together." Hobie's grin faded. "Hope you don't mind me helpin' m'self to your pantry." 

"Not at all." 

Hobie turned back to his scramble. "Almost done here--I couldn't figure out your coffee machine, but if you gimme a minute I'll--"

As Hobie talked, Burt stepped up behind him and put his hands on Hobie's hips. Hobie stopped talking. He turned his head slightly to Burt, looking surprised, but by no means unhappy with the development. So Burt kissed his temple, then his ear, then his neck, and settled his arms more firmly around Hobie's waist. Hobie gave a sigh that made Burt's heart do an uncomfortable flip in his chest. 

"How do you take your coffee?" Burt murmured. 

He felt, rather than saw, Hobie swallow hard. "Black." 

Burt kissed his ear again and went to brew it. 

Two minutes of low humming and subtle glances later found them both sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook, with a plate of scramble and a cup of coffee each, and Engels curled up at Burt's feet. A "scramble", as it turned out, consisted of eggs with milk, cheese, onion, green pepper, and ham. The fluffy lightness of the eggs belied the stick-to-your-ribs heft of the cheese and ham. Burt declared it the best breakfast he'd tasted in months. Hobie demurred, ducking his head down and biting back a smile. Burt's heart did another uncomfortable flop. 

"Hey Burt," said Hobie, swallowing a heaping mouthful of scramble. His table manners left something to be desired, though Burt supposed if he'd cooked it, he could eat it however he damn well pleased. "Can I ask you somethin'?" 

"Shoot," said Burt. 

"What's a mattachine?" 

Burt choked on his scramble. Hobie waited for him to clear his airway, a picture of perfect patience.

"It's... complicated," Burt wheezed. 

Hobie smiled wryly. "'Would that it'were so simple?'"

Burt balked at hearing Laurence's voice come out of that beaming cowboy face. "You're getting too good at that." 

"Can't take any credit, it's all Miss Skinners's hard work." Hobie grinned. "But you're changin' the subject, now." 

"Right." Burt cleared his throat. He'd had a long-term plan for how he might slowly and gently introduce the concept of radical left-wing politics to Hobie's mind. But since the boy had brought it up himself... "It might be easier to show you than tell you." 

Hobie leaned back and spread his arms to show off his empty plate. "I'm all done here if you are." 

Burt polished off the last of his scramble. He rose from his chair with all his dancer's grace and held out a gentlemanly hand to help Hobie do the same. Hobie seemed a little bemused by the gesture, but nevertheless went along with it, wearing that same shy bitten-back smile. Burt relished the sight. 

They walked down the hall arm-in-arm to the sitting room. The bookshelves were full of books--photography and art, mostly. All decoys. The real library lay behind a hinged wall panel. Hobie watched, bewildered, as Burt rapped the wainscoting with the back of his knuckles until he heard a hollow echo. Then he pressed a particular bump in the wallpaper above it, and the secret bookshelf swung open. 

Hobie's eyes widened to golf balls. Burt couldn't blame him. The secret bookshelf alone was a surprise. Its contents were astounding. Marx, Engels, Lenin, Trotsky, Steinbeck, Sinclair, Carpenter--any one of them enough to justify a raid and a slew of awkward questions from a Congressional committee. Burt picked up Carpenter's _Ioläus_. 

"The Mattachine Society is a study group of like-minded men," said Burt. He paused and glanced at Hobie, who listened with rapt attention. "They believe in equality. Share and share alike." 

"Communists, y'mean," said Hobie. 

"Incidental Communists, in their case," said Burt. "Their primary cause is the human rights of men like us." 

"Men like us?" Hobie chuckled. "Actors?" 

Burt looked at him blankly. "Men who fuck men." 

"Oh." Hobie's smile disappeared. "Can't say as I ever defined myself as such. Least not strictly." 

"It's how Capitalism defines you," Burt insisted. "Democrats, Republicans... they think we're freaks. Or they would, if they ever found out about us. But these guys," Burt tapped the cover of _Ioläus_. "Communists, Socialists, anarchists, the people looking to change the world, they don't think like that. They know we're just as human as anybody else. And so are women, and the working poor, and the blacks. The Communists are for the little guy in every fight, and the Mattachine Society's fight is against police raids and entrapment and harassment and prison sentences for the simple hope of human affection." 

Hobie nodded along, but the look in his eyes grew more and more distant. Burt was losing him. He reined himself in. 

"Here." Burt handed over _Ioläus_ , and grabbed _The Intermediate Sex_ , _The Grapes of Wrath_ , and _King Coal_ off the shelf for good measure-- _Das Kapital_ would have to wait, he didn't want to scare the kid off. "Start with these. They explain it a lot better than I could." 

Hobie's eyes widened, but he took the books anyway. "Okay, Burt. If you say so." 

Burt grinned approvingly and clapped him on the back. "Come on, let's drop all this off at your house and get you back to the studio. Laurence must be blowing a gasket without you." 


	10. Chapter 10

Books were heavy things. Hobie knew that. But the four books in his grip felt like they were dragging him straight down to hell as he carried it across the studio lot to Mr. Mannix's office. 

_Ioläus_ , _The Intermediate Sex_ , _The Grapes of Wrath_ , and _King Coal_. Hobie'd had 'em for a week. He'd read 'em all, burnin' through 'em at night after long days of shooting. He didn't dare bring 'em into his trailer to read between scenes. They weren't the kind of books you wanted to be seen reading. And he had to read 'em. Had to make sure they were Communist tracts.

And besides, Burt had asked him to. 

It gave his head somethin' of a spin to be playin' a soft-palmed well-to-do puttin'-on-the-Ritz gent by day and readin' up on how gents like that were destroying the world by night. They were definitely Communist books. But the worse than that--they made sense. Hobie could see how Burt got mixed up in this un-American business. The arguments were persuasive. Hobie couldn't deny that the worker deserved to reap the rewards of all his hard work, that owners couldn't be allowed to let good men die for profit, that queers like Burt--and himself, Hobie supposed--shouldn't have to go to jail for lovin' one another. Mr. Carpenter was a wordy sonuvabitch, but Hobie felt unexpected relief at learning it wasn't just lonely cowboys who wanted to kiss a feller. It would've been nice to know it when he was just a kid on a West Texas ranch who had to run away to the rodeo circuit to find someone who felt the same. 

Still. Communists. And Burt was one of them. His decision to loan the books to Hobie--a clear and undeniable attempt to recruit him to the red cause--proved his politics were sincere and not just a cover for his supposed spy work. Which was why Hobie'd called Mr. Mannix's office to make an appointment that morning, packed the books into his grip, dragged 'em around the set with him all day, and now sat in the waiting room twiddlin' his thumbs with the grip at his feet like an anchor. He felt like everyone who'd so much as glanced at the grip on his way over had X-ray vision, like the books were radiating red. But if Natalie noticed anything off about it, she didn't mention it. Just took down Hobie's name and told him Mr. Mannix would see him shortly. 

Hobie wished the wait were shorter. Every minute he had to reconsider made it that much harder to stay the course. And every time he tried to think of things that weren't Communism or Russians or Soviet spies, he kept comin' back to the memory of cookin' up a scramble in Burt's kitchen, and Burt sneakin' up behind him in a silk bathrobe to wrap his arms around Hobie's waist and get Hobie's skin tinglin' all over. Or the taste of that thick, salty cock in his mouth, and the way Burt had squirmed under his tongue. Or how it felt to bury his dick inside him. Or how snugly they fit together on the dancefloor of a crowded nightclub. How _well_ they fit together. And how very, very much Hobie was gonna miss that boyish grin when the books in his grip sent Burt off to prison. 

Then he thought of Burt in handcuffs--of a cop shovin' him into the back of a car--of Burt on the stand in front of Congress and God and everybody--the echo of a banging gavel sending Burt off to rot in a dark hole--

Hobie screwed his eyes shut. His knee shook, bouncin' up and down like a cornered hare. 

He didn't want to send Burt to prison. 

But he had no other choice. Burt had tried to make him a Communist. Heck, he'd almost succeeded. If it weren't for Burt's damned politics--

Hobie's eyes flew open in astonishment at his own brain. 

Politics. Why, if an all-American boy could be converted to Communism, surely a red-or-dead man could be coaxed back towards capitalism. Couldn't he? 

The more Hobie considered it, the better the notion sounded. Hobie would bring Burt back to the side of truth, justice, and apple pie. He'd drag him back kickin' and screamin' if he had to. Anything to keep him from breakin' rocks in a chain gang. 

"Mr. Doyle?" said Natalie, in a tone that suggested she'd said it more than once. "Mr. Mannix is waiting." 

Hobie jumped up and stumbled over his grip. Shit. The books. The meeting. If he wasn't turning Burt over to the ultimate authority of the studio, then why was he here? 

Natalie cocked an eyebrow. "Mr. Doyle?" 

"Right!" Hobie replied, a little too loud. He picked up the grip and winced at its weight. "Yes, I'm ready--thanks Natalie, thanks an awful lot--"

Natalie nodded along with an expression of flat disinterest as Hobie fled into Mr. Mannix's office. 

"Howdy, Mr. Mannix!" Hobie flung himself down into the chair in front of Mr. Mannix's desk and shoved his grip under his feet, prayin' Mr. Mannix wouldn't notice it. 

Judgin' from his raised eyebrow, Mr. Mannix absolutely noticed it, but didn't comment on it. "Big day for you, isn't it?" 

Hobie held back a flinch. "Oh, well, y'know--what with _Merrily We Dance_ premierin' tonight an' all--"

"Nothing to be nervous about, Hobie. Congratulations on your dramatic debut." 

Hobie put on his best magazine-cover smile. "Thanks, Mr. Mannix." 

"Now, what did you want to see me about? You told Natalie it was urgent." 

Hobie worked double to maintain that smile while he strained his brain for a plan. "I was just thinkin' about my date to the premiere--" 

"Joan Van Vechten, yeah." 

"--well that's just it, Mr. Mannix--" Hobie took a deep breath, then blurted, "--I don't wanna take her. I wanna go with Carlotta Valdez. Y'see, I like her. Like her an awful lot, as a matter o' fact. And I just don't feel right takin' anybody but her to the picture." 

Mr. Mannix gave him a cold stare. "Joan Van Vechten is a wonderful woman, Hobie." 

Hobie pretended he couldn't see the clouds of rage brewing behind Mr. Mannix's eyes. "An' I agree with you, but she ain't Carlotta. An' if you sat down an' had a talk with Miss Van Vechten, I think she'd agree I ain't Clark Gable. I'm sure she'd much rather go to the premiere with just about anybody but me." 

"Hobie--" Mr. Mannix stood up and braced his weight on his knuckles to loom over the desk at him. "--it's not a question of who wants to go with who. It's about the movie. Joan Van Vechten is your co-star. Carlotta Valdez isn't." 

"Carlotta wasn't my co-star for _Lazy Ol' Moon_ neither, but we still had a good time. And got a nice story for the Thackers in the bargain. I think everybody walked away from that li'l arrangement happy. Don't you?" 

The contortions of Mr. Mannix's eyebrows made Hobie think maybe he'd overstepped and showed his hand. But after a tense moment, those eyebrows settled down. Mr. Mannix sighed heavily. "Carlotta Valdez." 

"Yessir," said Hobie. 

Mr. Mannix narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Now get outta here." 

Hobie jumped up, tipped his hat, and skipped out of the office. A thought at the door stopped him, and he spun around to say it. "Mr. Mannix?" 

"What?" Mr. Mannix snapped. 

"Is Burt Gurney goin' to the premiere, too?" 

Mr. Mannix stared at him. "That's none of my business. Or yours. Now get out." 

"Yessir." Hobie skedaddled with a grin. 

The grip fulla books felt much lighter on his way out the door and down the lot. He had some hours to kill before he had to get ready for the premiere, and he intended to spend 'em puttin' his new plan into motion. Which is how he ended up taking a studio car to a little bookstore in downtown L.A. 

"Excuse me," he asked the clerk behind the counter. "C'n you recommend any sorta literature provin' the evils of Communism?" 

The clerk's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, but he handed over George Orwell's _Animal Farm_ without complaint, along with _Darkness at Noon_ and the latest issue of _Counterattack_. Hobie thanked him, paid him, and skipped out with a spring in his step. 

The rest of the day was a blur of readin', writin', and thinkin'--after he'd called up Carlotta and asked her to accompany him to his premiere, to which she replied she'd be happy to--and then it was time to put the penguin suit back on to go pick her up and drive over to the theater. 

Camera bulbs flashed all the way up the red carpet into the theater. Hobie blinked away the after-image and squinted through the mob of reporters, fans, and fellow stars, searching for a familiar handsome face. He saw Joan Van Vechten march past arm-in-arm with Clark Gable, just as she'd hoped. He saw Laurence Laurentz put on a pained smile for a particul'rly intrusive camera. He saw one of the Thackers--Thora or Thessaly, he never could tell--scribbling furiously in a notebook. But he didn't see Burt Gurney. And then they reached the theater door, and Carlotta gave him a gentle tug on the arm to get him inside. 

The movie was fine. Bit of a snore. Now that he was watchin' it instead of readin' it or actin' it, Hobie thought it'd be much better if Monty just socked Biff in the jaw and left that whole crowd behind. But the audience seemed to like the intrigue and back-stabbing. Hobie wondered what Burt thought of it. 

There was a standing ovation when the house lights came up. Hobie used it as cover to scan the crowd for Burt again--but with all the fellers in identical black tie, he couldn't hardly tell any of 'em apart. 

And then the audience filed out of the theater, Hobie and Carlotta with 'em, and there was Clark Gable openin' a car door for Joan Van Vechten, and there was Laurence Laurentz grittin' his teeth through a Thacker interview, and there was DeeAnna Moran rubbin' a li'l bump on her belly with a chubby feller at her side--but no Burt. Hobie furrowed his brow. 

"Hobie!" 

A hand fell onto Hobie's shoulder in a brotherly clap. Hobie recognized the familiar weight in an instant, and started grinning before he even turned around to face-- "Burt!" 

"Congratulations." Burt smiled down at him, but removed his hand from Hobie's shoulder rather sooner than Hobie would've liked. Hobie wondered why until the flash of yet another damn camera reminded him. 

"Thanks," Hobie replied, wishin' the hands that'd disappeared into Burt's pockets were put to better use on his own person. Dang paparazzi. 

"Mr. Doyle! Mr. Doyle!" 

Similar shouts came from all sides, but one particular cry cut through the noise. Hobie whipped his head towards it and found one of the Thackers rushing towards him. 

"Mr. Doyle!" cried Miss Thacker. "Is it true the studio dubbed over all your dialogue?" 

Someone in the crowd gasped. Hobie's smile died on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Burt's expression flicker from congeniality to outrage. 

Hobie hurried to cut him off. With a lift of his chin, he looked coolly into Miss Thacker's eyes and said, "Would that it'were so simple." 

The bug-eyed balk she gave him in return told him he'd nailed the mid-Atlantic accent. 

Hobie grinned and switched back to his natural drawl. "You c'n thank Miss Skinner for that." 

Carlotta burst out laughing. Her humor rippled on through the crowd, touching everybody but Miss Thacker. Miss Thacker looked like a cat who'd expected to get the cream but gotten a gallon of sour milk instead. That was a mighty satisfactory sight, yet not quite the one Hobie hoped for. He cast his eyes about for another glimpse of Burt. 

"Nicely done, kid," came a whisper from over his shoulder. Hobie whirled around just in time to catch Burt passing behind him to go shake hands with Laurence Laurentz. 

Hobie grinned so hard his cheeks ached for the rest of the night. 


	11. Chapter 11

Burt would've loved to stay at the premiere, to whisper an invitation to Hobie to meet him back at the beach house later that night and celebrate until daybreak. But it'd be best to leave Hobie behind to face the cameras in Carlotta's arms. Better for them both to spend the time sowing the seeds of a lavender marriage. Besides, Burt had an appointment with The Future. 

Since Burt's beach house had been raided, meetings were held at John Howard Hermann's apartment. Burt let his mind wander while they read the minutes. _Merrily We Dance_ had given him a lot to think about. Over the past few months, he'd figured he was helping Hobie survive working with Laurence. He didn't realize Hobie had actually turned in a decent performance. Not great, not Oscar-worthy, but solid. Combined with Laurence's direction, his co-stars' more experienced talent, and a killer script, it made for a damn good movie. Hobie's star was on the ascendant. A little flame of pride flared in Burt's chest--no more than a match-strike, but enough to make him feel warm all over. 

The minutes ended. The Future got down to business. Which was really just arguing back-and-forth about their next move now that they'd successfully kidnapped a movie star for ransom. Dutch Zweistrong wanted to go for Ronald Reagan next, but everyone else recognized it as an idiot idea and shot him down. 

"Two kidnappings?" Herschel demanded. "In a row? One right after the other?" 

"Shut up!" Dutch snapped. 

Herschel didn't shut up. He never did. Burt didn't think Herschel knew how. "That's not _praxis_ , that's madness! You're insane!" 

"You got any better ideas?" Dutch growled. 

Burt, who'd been half-listening as he considered Hobie's impending box-office smash, piped up for the first time since the meeting began. "Yeah. I do." 

The room quieted as it always did when Burt Gurney spoke. Charisma at work. That, and a certain air of legitimacy granted by an actual Soviet contact. Burt indulged in a wry half-smile at the thought, then got back down to business. 

"I need a script," he said. 

Professor Marcuse's eyes widened. A low murmur ran around the room. 

"For an all-American musical comedy," Burt added. "I don't need the melody or the lyrics, but it's gotta have space for dance numbers." 

Benedict de Bonaventure raised his bushy black eyebrows. "An overtly patriotic, pro-capitalist, _musical_ spec script?" 

"And I need it tomorrow morning. Got a meeting with Mr. Mannix." 

Predictably, the room erupted. Burt sat back and listened to the cacophony of protests--it was impossible, an overnight script, a gross misuse of their talents, and for the promotion of values so contrary to their own. 

Burt raised his voice over the clamor. "Capitalist propaganda will help us all earn back the studio's trust after the stunt we pulled. Allay any lingering suspicions they might have. I'm not asking for everybody. Just a few volunteers. No more than three. Whoever's got a free night and an idle muse. Make it a collaborative effort, give the credit to whoever the studios are pointing fingers at this week. Which is probably Herschel, right?" 

Burt turned to Herschel to confirm. Herschel's mustache bristled in a scowl, which didn't mean much on him. 

"An overtly patriotic smash hit to improve your reputation," Burt added, upping the wattage on his smile. "You get the dough straight off from selling the script, then more from the offers that'll come rolling in once your credits on it prove you're not part of the red menace." 

Herschel's mustache bristled sideways. 

Burt waited. 

"Fine, I'm in," Herschel spat. He glared around the room. "Anybody else going down with this ship?" 

For a moment, all were silent. Then Beardley Auberon raised a shaking hand. 

"Fantastic," said Burt, grinning at him. "From one comrade to another--thank you." 

Auberon's lips twitched into a weak smile. He turned to Herschel. "Shall we get to work, then?" 

"Bah!" Herschel threw up his hands. "Somebody gimme a pen! What's the premise?" 

Burt sat back in his chair, his grin growing more sincere. "You're gonna love this..." 

#

Burt didn't get a wink of sleep. He didn't complain--Herschel and Auberon had done all the work, he'd just supervised. By dawn they had a rough draft. Enough to justify the early-morning meeting Burt had scheduled with Eddie Mannix. Despite his exhaustion, Burt had a spring in his step as he strode into Mannix's office. 

"You're looking chipper," said Mannix once they'd gotten the preliminaries out of the way. "Though I suppose the box-office returns on _Swabbies!_ are enough to put a smile on anybody's face." 

Burt hadn't bothered to contain his legitimate grin. He let it grow even broader now. "Saw _Merrily We Dance_ last night. That Doyle kid's a real talent. Any idea what they've got lined up for him next?" 

"Not yet. Though producers are starting to ask for him--as I'm sure you've already heard on the lot." 

"Can you blame 'em?" said Burt. "His Westerns prove he can sing. _Merrily We Dance_ proves he can act. All that's left is actual dancing, and it doesn't take a genius to look at his rope-twirling and handstands and conclude he'll be a quick study at that, too. Put him in a musical comedy and I guarantee the box office is gonna explode." 

Mannix's look of growing suspicion resolved into the expression of a man who thought he'd figured out the game. "And of course you have a musical comedy to recommend." 

Burt shrugged. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't. I can't take all the credit for the idea, turns out Herschel had this lying around--" He casually pulled the script from his bag and held it out for Mannix, who took it warily and began paging through it. "--it's fascinating stuff. Based on a true story." 

" _The Seafaring Cowboy_ ," Mannix read in a deadpan. 

"Working title," said Burt. "You remember right after the war, Europe blown to bits, our good ol' American farmers sent over horses and mules and cows to help rebuild all those farms?" 

"Vaguely," Mannix admitted. 

"All those animals needed men who knew how to deal with them," Burt continued. "So cowboys went along. There's Hobie Doyle. And they went on boats, which need sailors. There's me. You've got yourself a culture-clash comedy with feel-good patriotism and two big stars front and center." 

Mannix furrowed his brow, his eyes scanning back and forth across the pages as he listened. "You and Hobie start out buttin' heads, slowly grow to become friends over the course of the voyage--Where's the dame?" 

"In Poland. The cowboy gives her a mare. He's instantly smitten. Being but a humble naive farmboy, he runs to the worldly sailor for advice, and between the two of them they contrive to get wedding bells ringing just as the credits roll." 

"All in the last ten minutes?" 

"What can I say, Herschel writes tight. You can hand it over to Ms. Parker if you want it punched up." 

Mannix flipped the script shut. "Won't be necessary. I should probably warn you Hobie's in high demand right now. Our publicists can hardly keep up with the reviews rolling in." 

Burt humbled his expression. "Yeah, I figured. Could you maybe put in a word with Mr. Schenk? Or just, y'know, mention it?" 

Mannix's narrowed eyes seemed to see right through the ploy. "Take it right to the top, eh?" 

"I figured if Mr. Schenk took enough personal interest in Hobie's career to put him in _Merrily We Dance_ , he'd probably be interested in this." 

Mannix kept his suspicious squint, but nodded. "All right. I'll mention it. But no guarantees." 

"Never are in this business," Burt replied with a grin, and showed himself out. 

#

Once they secured Mr. Schenk's approval--as Burt knew they would--everything else came together. They could re-use most of the sets, props, and costumes from _Swabbies!_ and borrow the rest from the Western ranches. For livestock, they'd keep just two or three on the lot and imply more with stock footage and sound effects. Dorothy Parker spiced up the dialogue, Irving Berlin signed on for the music, and Arne Seslum agreed to direct. They had all the ingredients for yet another smash. More importantly, Hobie's face lit up when Burt pitched it to him. 

"Gosh, Burt, that'd be swell," the kid had gushed. "But I ain't never danced in a picture." 

"Lucky for you, I have," Burt replied, letting his hand slide down from Hobie's shoulder to settle around his waist--they were sitting side-by-side at the bar in Maxwell's, no paparazzi, no worries. "Stick with me and you'll give Fred Astaire a run for his money." 

Hobie laughed at that, his open-mouthed laugh that didn't give a damn how it looked or sounded. Burt felt another twinge in his chest. He shoved it down and leaned in to kiss that honest cowboy mouth. 

"Back to my place?" Burt murmured when they paused to breathe. 

Hobie started to nod, then stopped, his brow furrowed. "Actually, can we spend the night at mine? There's somethin' I wanna show you." 

Burt raised a surprised eyebrow and chuckled. "Anything you want, kid." 

Hobie had a small bachelor pad tucked away in Beverly Hills. The studio had decorated it in a mix of modern furniture and Old West accent pieces. 

"Nice," Burt said, admiring the longhorn skull hung over the completely useless fireplace in the living room. "It's... striking." 

"It's plaster," Hobie snorted. "Should bring a real one back from the ranch next time I visit Ma." 

"D'you visit often?" Burt turned to watch as Hobie bobbed and weaved around the apartment, bringing out a bottle of whisky, two shot glasses--and a paperback book. 

"Often as I can. But that ain't too often what with all the pictures." 

Hobie put the whisky and glasses down on the coffee table and flopped back onto the couch behind it. The book remained in his hand. Burt squinted at it, trying to read the title, but Hobie's knuckles blocked it.

Burt settled for sinking down beside Hobie. He spread his legs wide, his left knee knocking against Hobie's right. "What'cha got there?" 

For the first time since he'd fucked Burt stupid at the beach house, Hobie looked nervous. "Oh. Uh, so... I read the books you leant me..." 

"What'd you think of them?" 

Hobie's hand clenched around his own book, crinkling the paperback cover. "They're okay. Good, I mean. Lotta what they say makes sense." 

Burt withheld a wicked grin. Everything was coming together according to plan. 

But Hobie's square jaw remained tensely set. "So, I figured, since you were so kind as to lend me some o' your library, I oughter lend you some o' mine." 

And he shoved his book towards Burt. 

Burt recovered from his surprise and accepted the book, flipping it over to read the cover at last. 

_Animal Farm_

His blood ran cold. 

He flicked his gaze from the cover to Hobie's face. Hobie wore a nervous smile. Charming. Downright adorable. Burt would've liked to kiss it. But not immediately after receiving anti-Soviet libel. 

Still, Hobie seemed as innocent as ever. Maybe the socio-political themes of Orwell's work had flown over his beautiful head. 

Burt flipped the book again and pretended to read the back copy. He worked to keep his tone conversational as he asked, "What's it about?" 

"Animals," said Hobie. "On a farm." 

Burt let out a tiny sigh of relief. 

"But it's really a metaphor for the Soviet Union after Lenin's death," Hobie added. 

Burt choked on his own spit. Hobie slapped him on the back to aid his recovery, then handed him a shot of whisky when he could breathe again. 

"Hobie," Burt wheezed, his eyes watering. "You know that's all just capitalist propaganda, right?" 

Hobie shrugged. 

Burt swallowed and continued. "Orwell--he doesn't know what he's talking about. He's just spreading rumors." 

"What about them show trials?" 

Burt stared at him. "Pardon?" 

"The show trials. In Moscow. In thirty-seven an' thirty-eight. Don't you know--?"

"I know," Burt snapped. "You don't." 

Hobie's eyes flew wide as he jerked back. Burt realized his mask had slipped. 

"Sorry," he hurried to add, rubbing a hand over his face. "I just--it's the same old gossip over and over. I get sick of hearing it. Like that stupid _On Wings as Eagles_ rumor. You know..." 

"Yeah," said Hobie, still eyeing Burt warily. "I know." 

"But the trials..." Burt sighed. "When the transcripts came out--this was back when I was still living in Brooklyn, just getting started onstage--I got a copy in translation and holed myself up in my room. Didn't come out for six weeks. I read every word, Hobie. They're legitimate." 

Hobie's mouth pulled to one side of his face, unconvinced. "If you say so." 

"Capitalists lie, Hobie. That's all they know how to do. The fat cats and the bosses--"

"Like Mr. Schenk?" 

Burt hated this conversation. It was too soon--he still had to get _Das Kapital_ and _The History of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union_ into Hobie's head. At least, that's how he'd planned it. Now, he could feel the reins slipping out of his hands. There was nothing to do but admit, "Like the studios, yeah." 

"Well, the studio's been good to us, ain't it?" 

Burt sighed again, heavier, throwing theatrical weight behind it, scraping the bottom of the barrel for any trick, technique, or act to make himself more convincing. But his repertoire was running out. "Only because it benefits them. The minute we stop being cash cows, they'll kick us to the curb. Same as every boss does with every worker." 

"Aw, y'can't tar 'em all with the same brush." Hobie's smile was hapless. Unstudied. It shouldn't have worked. Not on Burt. And yet... "There's gotta be good ones. Heck, most of 'em probably are." 

"Hobie--" Burt leaned in, a Russian-accented voice in his brain telling him to _use first names, get in personal space, make physical contact--create false intimacy and real intimacy will follow_. "--you only believe capitalism works because you think the bosses have hearts of gold like you." 

Hobie perked up. "Y'think I got a heart o' gold?" 

Burt blinked. It wasn't the concept he'd intended to impart, but whatever got Hobie off the subject of defending capitalist pigs... "Yeah. I do." 

Hobie grinned. Burt relaxed, thinking the worst was over. Relaxation proved fatal. 

"In that case," Hobie concluded, "trust my heart o' gold to steer us through. Now, I know you're awful fond o' your friend Stalin, an' I understand, I really do. But I read every dang book y'gave me, Burt. Can't you do the same for me? Just one little story?" 

Burt tried not to grind his teeth in frustration. "I already did." 

"Then read it ag'in. Maybe it'll strike a diff'rent chord this time." Hobie's eyebrows knitted into a pleading expression, combined with deep brown eyes and a full lower lip. "Please, Burt? For me?" 

Burt tried to pretend the ache in his chest was heartburn. "Okay." 

"All right, then." Hobie leaned in to reward him with a kiss. Burt tried to lose himself in it and not think about the conversation they'd just had. There was time yet to fix whatever had gone wrong in his attempt to recruit Hobie to the cause. 

They spent the rest of the night alternating between necking and reading the revised _Seafaring Cowboy_ script. In the morning, Burt awoke to another empty bed, with faint music coming from the living room. He followed it and found Hobie sitting on the couch, strumming his guitar and softly singing the opening number. 

Hobie had a flannel shirt thrown carelessly around his shoulders, left unbuttoned over his bare chest and lean muscles. He sat barefoot, with his denim-clad legs splayed wide to support his guitar. His hair remained mussed from sleep. Bright morning sunbeams streamed in through the open window and turned the tips of his dark curls to bronze. His full, pink lips murmured the lyrics. Long lashes covered his eyes, cast down at the sheet music laid out on the coffee table before him, completely unaware of his surroundings. Hardworking and loyal and trusting as a lamb. Handsome as the devil. 

Burt's forehead thudded against the doorframe. 

Hobie snapped his head up towards him. "Shoot, I didn't wake you, did I?" 

Burt smiled and shook his head, ambling over to the couch for a good morning kiss. Hobie cheerfully returned it.

After breakfast they drove over to the beach house. Burt spent the rest of the day rehearsing the musical numbers with Hobie and teaching him some dancing basics. The kid was a quick study. By dinner, he could do a respectable timestep. He had to repeat the words, "Shuffle, ball, step!" to himself under his breath as he did it, but he could do it. 

They spent the rest of the week like that. Burt could've happily spent forever. But next Monday demanded their presence on the studio lot. They had to go in separate cars--couldn't afford the rumors a joint arrival would start. 

Burt arrived on the soundstage first. It was like walking back onto the _Swabbies!_ set. There was the false deck of the battleship, repurposed for post-war needs. There were Walt and Gus and plenty of other familiar faces in sailor suits--including Burt himself. There was was Arne Seslum, overseeing the same camera set-up to capture the intricate dance they'd all soon put into action. Everything was the same. 

Then the jangle of spurs drew Burt's attention to the soundstage's heavy double doors. He, and everyone else in the room, turned towards Hobie's entrance. 

Burt had a glimpse of Hobie's customary cowboy garb on the screen, but he quickly realized film hadn't done it justice. Hobie strutted onto the soundstage like the new sheriff in town. He brought the scent of leather with him. His boots, chaps, and hat were stained a medium-brown, darker than his usual white-hate getup. A flannel shirt in blue plaid spread out over his lean chest and shoulders, making them look even more warm and inviting than usual. His silver belt buckle matched his sharp spurs--just barely touched with tarnish to give the illusion of use. On one belt loop hung a coil of rope, ready to lasso any varmint that stood in Hobie's way. The jeans Burt knew from going around with Hobie for the past two months, though that did nothing to temper his appreciation for the form-fitting denim. Burt made immediate plans to convince Hobie to bring the leather, spurs, and rope into the bedroom. 

Hobie caught his stare, matched it with a delighted grin, and trotted on over. "Howdy, Burt!" 

Burt let himself have a little bit of smile in return. Before they could engage in any further conversation, Arne pulled Hobie aside. 

"Burt Gurney tells me you twirl the rope?" Arne asked. 

Hobie gave him a big, eager nod. "Can do!" 

"Show me." Arne stepped back, arms crossed over his cable-knit sweater. 

Hobie unhooked the coiled lasso from his belt and set it into motion. The loop spun level with the ground, about half a foot up. Then, keeping it spinning, he hopped in and out of the loop, adroitly avoiding the rope. Then with a flick of his wrist he sent the loop into the air and spun it down over his body, and up again to let himself escape. The loop swung out to the side, vertical now, and grew wider and wider and wider until Hobie could jump back-and-forth through it, still spinning. 

"Ja, ja, is good," said Arne after a minute or so of watching with his brow furrowed in concentration. "Burt, hop in the loop." 

Hobie planted his feet firmly on the ground and set the rope twirling six inches off the floor again. He gave Burt a hapless half-smile and cocked his head invitingly towards the loop. 

Burt leapt in. He tapped through it, inside and out of it, spinning with and against it. The rhythm came easily. Easier than it ever had with any new partner before. 

"Good!" Arne barked, and put his hands on Burt's shoulders to halt him. Hobie dropped the rope the instant Burt's feet stopped moving. 

And then Arne was off, keeping one hand in a vise-grip on Burt's collar as he waved his other hand around the set and dictated his stream-of-consciousness choreography. Burt bit back a laugh at Hobie's wide-eyed response to Arne's method. 

By the end of the day, they'd worked out a routine of Hobie flinging his lasso to-and-fro across the deck of the ship, and Burt making a menace of himself tapping through it, until the frustrated cowboy roped the sailor like an ornery steer. The scene ended with Burt hog-tied on the deck, Hobie's triumphant spur digging into his back. 

That night, back at the beach house, Burt convinced Hobie to "rehearse" it again, with very satisfactory results. 

Shooting continued to go splendidly for the next few days. No cloud appeared on the horizon until they broke for lunch on Wednesday. It seemed normal at first--Hobie accompanied Burt to the commissary as usual, took a plate of beans and sat down to chat about the film or their evening plans or rodeo tales or studio gossip or whatever else occurred to them. But today, Hobie didn't seem keen on letting the conversation meander. 

"Did you read _Animal Farm_ yet?" he asked. "Or, re-read it, I mean?" 

Burt withheld a sigh. Let no one say Hobie Doyle ever beat around a bush. "Yes." 

"And?" Hobie leaned in. "What'd'ya think of it?" 

"I think it's propaganda." 

Hobie's expression dimmed. "Well, I s'pose that's your prerogative." 

"Mm-hmm." Burt concentrated on his chicken fricassee. 

But it would take more than disinterest to daunt Hobie Doyle. "You wanna do another book exchange? Give me one o' yours, an' I'll give you one o' mine? There's this here _Darkness at Noon_ that's partic'larly interestin'--"

"Hobie," said Burt. "I'm really busy. Choreography. Rehearsals. Shooting. You know." 

Hobie balked. "Well, so'm I, but that ain't stopped me none." 

"Yeah, well, we can't all be such good examples." Burt stabbed his chicken with his fork. "I'm sorry. I'm tired. Maybe after we wrap." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Burt saw Hobie chew his lip. "Yeah. Maybe." 

Burt gave him a fan club photograph smile. "You coming downtown with me tonight?" 

"Naw, I'm takin' Carlotta out t'dinner." 

"Bring her to Maxwell's. We'll all have a good time." 

Hobie poked at his beans. "Can't. It's a studio thing. Gotta give the paparazzi some good photos." 

Burt's smile faded. "Oh." 

Hobie's brow took on a concerned furrow. "You're not jealous, are you? Carlotta an' I are friends--"

"I know, I know." Burt held up his hands. "She's a great girl, you don't have to remind me." 

Hobie still looked worried, but he went back to his beans without argument. 

Burt, meanwhile, had lost all appetite for his chicken. He didn't know why. There wasn't any rational cause for it. Hobie and Carlotta were friends. Photographs of their dates kept them safe from more dangerous rumors about their love life. And it wouldn't be the first night Burt had spent alone in his empty beach house. Years had gone by that way. 

It would, however, be the first night Burt had spent alone in almost a month. 

By the time shooting wrapped for the day, Burt had resigned himself to his fate and pasted on a paparazzi-worthy grin for everyone he met. He saved his hollow, sunken look of disappointment for his rear-view mirror as he drove back to Malibu. 

The beach house was the same as ever. Sleek, bright, spacious. Too spacious. Far more space than one man and a dog required. Even if he didn't believe each should take only according to his need, Burt wouldn't have needed this. But he didn't have any say in it. The studio offered. He accepted. Of all the roles he'd played, the role of the acquiescent movie star was the most valuable to his work for the Party. No one would suspect the happy puppet of plotting against Uncle Sam. So when the studio offered him a house, and decorated it for him without any of his input, Burt smiled and thanked them and moved in. 

Burt hated it. From the floor-to-ceiling wainscoting to the pointless fireplaces to the brown-and-yellow-and-beige color scheme, it made him sick. He'd joke he was defecting to Russia to escape the house as much as to escape capitalism, if he had anyone to joke to. He'd hoped Hobie could be that person. He wanted to tell Hobie everything. About sucking dick for dinner in Brooklyn and spending six weeks holed up with a Soviet agent in a fit of furious Communist lovemaking and learning everything he knew from men in dresses and only ever feeling truly free when he was dancing. About his plan to get out of this hellhole infested with pigs and bosses. About his desire to take Hobie with him to the promised land of share and share alike. 

Yet here was Hobie, bringing up Orwell and Koestler, completely immune to Burt's attempts to educate him on the truth of collective living. 

Burt couldn't stay. He couldn't stand to spend his life as a compliant capitalist cow, milked dry and slaughtered. He'd lose his damn mind in a month. 

But he knew, no matter how much he tried to deny it, he'd go mad in a week if he had to leave Hobie behind. 

These cheerful thoughts ran rampant through Burt's mind as he dragged himself into his hideous house. Engels's yapping snapped him out of it long enough to scoop the dog into his arms and nuzzle his hairy little head. Then the door shut behind him, and it was back to juggling the dog in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. 

He'd be fine, he told himself as he mixed his drink. He was always fine. Nothing ever got Burt Gurney down. Not a boot to the gut in a New York alley after he propositioned the wrong guy. Not a hundred rejections from Broadway auditions. Not the HUAC hearings. Nothing. He'd spent years alone in this grotesque parody of a house. One more night wouldn't kill him. 

He tried not to think about what would happen if every night were "one more night." 

He flopped down in a living room chair, Engels in his lap, a salty dog in his hand. Engels fell asleep within minutes. The salty dog disappeared sip by sip as those minutes stretched on into hours. The sun set, plunging the house into darkness--Burt didn't bother turning on the lights. He stared out his massive window to the ocean beyond. Somewhere out there, a Soviet submarine was waiting for him. He just had to find it. And convince Hobie Doyle to board it with him. 

Someone knocked on his door. 

Engels jolted awake and jumped down to the floor, yapping. Burt shushed him. 

Someone knocked again. 

Burt narrowed his eyes at the door. He hadn't invited anyone over. And no one he knew would show up uninvited--not even the Future. Only Hobie would be welcome under these circumstances, and he was out with Carlotta. 

Unless... 

Burt glanced at his watch, just visible in the moonlight. It ticked past two. No way a gentleman like Hobie would keep a girl out this late. Which meant his date had to be over by now. Which would leave him free to--

A third knock sounded. Burt leapt to answer it. He flung the door open with a wide, sincere grin. "Hob--!"

His greeting died in his throat. On his doorstep stood a man. Unremarkable in every way, from his drab gray-brown fedora to his third-hand overcoat to his blank, forgettable face. Middle-aged, with medium-brown hair, medium-brown eyes, and a clean-shaven face with medium-sized nose and mouth. Average. Utterly interchangeable with anyone else in a crowd. 

Burt recognized him instantly. He swallowed hard. "Ivan." 

The corner of Ivan's mouth twitched. "Good evening, comrade. Let's take a walk." 


	12. Chapter 12

Burt followed Ivan down to the beach. An unseasonably cold night breeze dove down the back of Burt's neck, putting his hairs on end. No light but a sliver of the pale moon and its sparkle on the waves--not unlike the night Burt had rowed out with the Future. The tide was out, leaving the vast swaths of sand for them to traverse. They walked side-by-side, an arm's length apart. Ivan didn't look at Burt, apparently trusting him to fall in line. His trust was well-placed, Burt reflected bitterly as he kept up. 

They'd gone maybe a quarter-mile when Ivan reached inside his coat. Burt braced himself to fight for his life. But Ivan produced a silver cigarette case instead of a gun. He flicked it open, took out a cigarette with his teeth, then wordlessly offered the case to Burt. Burt selected a cigarette, but waited to put it to his lips until Ivan had lit and taken a drag on his own. 

"So," said Burt when the darkness and the silence got the best of him. "Where's the submarine?" 

"At the bottom of the ocean," Ivan replied nonchalantly. "If there's any justice." 

Burt stared at him. All his dreams--of escaping the capitalist, proto-fascist hellhole America had become after the war, of traveling to a place where everyone lived under the principles of share-and-share alike, of working in an entertainment industry where he didn't have to hide what he was and who he loved--sunk beneath the waves, never to rise again. Ivan didn't seem to notice. 

"What happened to it?" Burt demanded. 

Ivan took a casual drag of his cigarette. "American torpedo." 

Burt felt like the same had just struck him in the chest. "How did they know it was there?" 

"I told them." 

Burt's stare turned into a gawk. 

Ivan continued to ignore it. "They will assume it was you, of course. Considering your relationship with the FBI." 

"You're trying to kill me," Burt concluded. 

"No," said Ivan. "I'm trying to save you." 

"From what?" Burt snapped. 

"Why do you want to go to Russia so bad, huh?" Ivan asked. His voice had started cool and collected as ever, but gained speed and volume as he spoke on. "You want to build the Transpolyarnaya Magistral, is that it? Eager to work on the Stalinbahn?" 

"What's--?"

Ivan spat. "A death sentence, is what it is. Stalin wants a railroad. Through Siberia. Prisoners build it." 

"I'm not going to be a prisoner, I'm going to make movies--" Burt cut himself off as Ivan burst into a hacking, joyless laugh. 

"Yes, of course!" Ivan croaked. "Burt Gurney, big movie star! The Soviet film industry welcomes him! Perhaps he will even complete one or two projects before they find out what he really is." 

Burt's jaw clenched. "If you've got any doubt as to where my loyalties lie--"

"No, no, of course not. Your loyalty to the Party--to Stalin--is unquestionable. Your taste in bedfellows, on the other hand..." 

Burt stopped walking. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"You're a very good actor, Burt, but that's not going to fool the NKVD." Ivan, who'd gone ahead a few steps, now spun to face Burt, nose-to-nose. "They call you 'comrade' now, but they'll call you 'fascist' when they find you in another man's arms. And they will find you. Do you know what happens to homosexuals under Stalin?" 

"It's the same here," said Burt, forcing a careless shrug. 

Ivan's eyebrows swooped down in sudden rage. "The same! You think you have it bad here, in sunny California? Oh, how you must suffer!" 

"We've got police entrapment, blackmail, prison--"

"We've got fucking GULAGs, you ignorant--!" The rest of Ivan's exclamation came in a burst of Russian, too emphatic and frantic for Burt to translate on the fly. Before Burt could tell him to slow down, he reined himself in with a deep, shuddering breath. "You go to prison, you say. Are your prisons on the fucking taiga? Do your prisoners choose between starving and freezing to death? Or have you already planned to escape in a pair, so you may eat your comrade and wear his skin for warmth?" 

Burt stared at Ivan, who'd clearly lost his mind. The USSR was the first successful mass-scale collective living experiment. He knew this. No matter what people liked to mutter about show trials and disappearances. "That's capitalist propaganda--"

"Hah!" Ivan scoffed in Burt's face. "Capitalists haven't the imagination for this shit! They could never conceive of what Stalin has done!" 

Burt's head swam as he struggled to make sense of the insanity. "If this is true, then you lied to me for fifteen years. Why?" 

Ivan threw his arms out to either side, helpless. "Because I'm a fucking spy, you idiot!" 

"So am I, jackass!" Burt lunged at him. Ivan didn't move. Not even when Burt snatched up his lapels in his fists. Burt snarled. "You remember Brooklyn? We spent a week on that goddamn mattress. You certainly seemed to enjoy it. If you didn't, you're a hell of an actor and your talent is wasted in espionage. Fairies are fascists now? If I'm a fascist, what the fuck does that make you?" 

Ivan remained stone-faced throughout Burt's outburst. He responded in a monotone. "A fascist." 

Burt narrowed his eyes. "Then why aren't you in a 'fucking GULAG'?" 

Ivan's expression remained blank. But his voice cracked as he replied, "They took Pavel." 

Burt had never heard the name before, but the defeat in Ivan's tone told him everything. 

Ivan continued. "Our neighbors reported us to the Party. They sent him to Kolyma. Told me if I succeeded in my first mission, I wouldn't suffer the same fate. If I succeeded in many, many missions, he would be freed. If I should ever fail..." 

Empathy. That was the actor's curse. You couldn't inhabit a role until you understood it inside and out. The motivation. The pain. That same empathy made Burt's stomach lurch as he listened. "What changed?" 

Ivan shrugged, his face still empty of all emotion, but his cheeks had grown wet. "He is dead. They cannot hurt him now." 

Burt struggled to swallow away the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry." 

Ivan blinked hard. When he raised his head to meet Burt's gaze, his eyes were dry again. "There's nothing left to tie me to those--" Burt didn't recognize the Russian curse. "I'm leaving. If you're smart, you'll go, too." 

"Where?" 

"Talk to your FBI. They'll think of a place." 

"No, I mean, where are you going?" 

"Better for both of us if you don't know. But you should go, too." 

"I'm staying." 

Ivan stared at him as if Burt were the one talking crazy. "They will kill you." 

"In the middle of Hollywood? Seems like that'd attract too much attention." 

"They'll make it look like an accident. And they won't stop with you--you're fond of the cowboy, yes? They know this. They're watching." 

At the mention of Hobie, Burt's blood ran cold. But he kept his jaw firm. "I'd like to see 'em try." 

Ivan shook his head, backing away from him. "This is your only warning. If they'd had their way, you'd never have received it." 

"I know," said Burt. 

"In that case..." Ivan was almost entirely gone now, slipping into the shadows beyond Burt's vision. Only the glow of his lit cigarette remained. Then it was flung aside and extinguished in the waves. When Ivan spoke again, Burt could hardly hear him. "Goodbye, my friend." 


	13. Chapter 13

Hobie tried not to think about Burt while he was out with Carlotta, but the look on Burt's face at lunch didn't make it easy. That face--hard, unyielding, severe--kept swimming up in Hobie's imagination as they danced the night away in a studio-approved venue.

He didn't understand why Burt got so hung-up on this date. It'd never bothered him before. Burt and Carlotta were friends, for cryin' out loud, long before Hobie'd ever met either of 'em. They'd had dance competitions and duets. Burt had even asked Carlotta if she could teach Hobie to roll his hat down his arm for _Seafaring Cowboy_. Hobie was still working on that trick, and Carlotta claimed he was making good progress. But suddenly, Burt didn't seem to like the thought of Carlotta and Hobie together. Didn't make a lick of sense. 

At the end of the evening, when Hobie dropped Carlotta off at her doorstep, he apologized for his inattentiveness. Carlotta laughed and pecked him on the cheek, claiming she'd noticed nothing of the sort. Hobie headed back to his own house and sprawled out on the empty bed. He fell asleep hoping the coming dawn would see an improvement in Burt's mood. 

A few short hours later, he arrived on set to find his hopes hadn't come true. 

Burt had beaten him to the soundstage and was already rehearsing the choreography for that morning's scene. He kept his square jaw set in a grim line as he jumped, spun, and slid. 

"Howdy, Burt," Hobie called. 

Burt looked up, gave him an unsmiling nod, and went right back to work. 

Hobie struggled to keep up his good-morning grin. So now Burt wasn't talkin' to him. Okay. Fine. Seemed a poor way to shoot a picture, but Hobie'd dealt with much the same in his first week on the _Merrily We Dance_ set. He could take it. 

When the cameras rolled, Burt slipped into character like he'd never had a sour thought in all his days. He laughed, he joked, he smiled, he did everything the script told him to. But the moment Mr. Seslum shouted "Cut!", Burt switched to his thundercloud expression. He didn't snap or snarl or growl, but everyone on set steered clear of him regardless. 

Everyone except Hobie, who trotted right over to him at the first break. 

"Hey," Hobie said, his voice low. "What's goin' on?" 

Burt stared at him, then let his eyes roam over the soundstage before returning to Hobie's face. "We're shooting a movie." 

Hobie let out a huff of frustration. "Y'know what I mean. What's got you lookin' like you swallowed a saguaro? Is this about Carlotta an' me? 'Cause I told you--"

"What?" Burt blinked like he'd only just started hearing Hobie talk. "No, no, it's not about that. It's not about anything. It's nothing." 

"If it's nothin' then how come y'can't even say howdy-do t'me?" 

Burt gave Hobie a confused, distracted look. "Shit, I'm sorry. It's nothing to do with you, I swear. I'm just tired." 

Hobie supposed he might be barkin' up the wrong tree. "H'okay then, guess I'll leave you alone. Sorry t'bother you." 

"You're not a bother." Burt didn't look at Hobie as he said this--his eyes were off scanning the distant shadowy corners of the soundstage. "I'm just in a funk. What're you doing tonight?" 

Hobie raised an eyebrow. He'd heard of runnin' hot'n'cold, but this was somethin' else. "Nothin' yet." 

"I was thinking maybe we could have a quiet night in. Your place or mine, doesn't matter." 

Hobie narrowed his eyes. Somethin' in Burt's tone wasn't right. The words lacked enthusiasm. At best, they sounded like a paper curtain pulled over a scared, snarling bobcat. "I dunno, Burt. Think I might be tired, too." 

In all their acquaintance, Hobie'd never seen Burt's face fall so far so fast. "Right. Maybe tomorrow?" 

"Maybe." Hobie chewed on his cheek. "Burt, if somethin's wrong, y'can tell me. Even if it's about Carlotta. 'Cause I don't want you t'feel like a third wheel now." 

"No, it's not--it's this stupid thing back in New York, just something for me to work through. Don't worry about it. You concentrate on Carlotta and the shoot and leave the rest to me, okay?" Burt smiled the saddest, most pathetic smile Hobie'd ever seen on a human face. 

Hobie wondered who'd died. "All right. Jus' lemme know if there's anythin' I can do t'help." 

Burt nodded absently, then jerked his head up to look Hobie in the eye. "Actually--can I ask a favor?" 

"Shoot." 

"Can I borrow _Darkness at Noon_?" 

Hobie stared at him. "Uh, sure, if y'want. I'll bring it by tomorrow." 

"Great." Burt's smile looked a little more sincere, but not by much. "Thanks, Hobie." 

"Anytime, pard." 

Burt wandered off to further inspect the corners of the soundstage. Hobie left him to it. Whatever he needed to do to feel better, Hobie s'posed. He tried not to let his mind jump to Communist plots. He hoped Burt wasn't planning another kidnapping. 

The shooting continued, wrapped for the day, then began anew the next. Hobie handed over _Darkness at Noon_ as promised. Burt thanked him profusely, but didn't look any happier. 

"So--tonight?" Burt asked, tucking the book away underneath his monogrammed folding chair. 

Hobie braced himself. "Y'still want me to come over?" 

"Actually--" Burt swallowed hard. "How about your place? It's... cozier. Smaller windows. And fewer of them." 

Hobie raised an eyebrow. "H'okay, then." 

"Great." Burt clapped him on the shoulder and ran off across the soundstage. Hobie watched him stop by the HIGH VOLTAGE sign in the corner and inspect the humming hunk of machinery underneath it. 

Hobie really, really hoped it wasn't part of a Communist plot. 

That night, Hobie expected to fuck rough and get fucked rougher. He didn't expect Burt to re-lock the front door twice, the bedroom door three times, and then use the resulting privacy to kiss Hobie's neck, tender as a lamb, and hold him tight to his chest as they fell asleep. For all his gentle motions, Hobie could feel Burt's heart pounding through his chest like a goddamn jackhammer. But every time Hobie asked what was wrong, Burt just shushed him with another slow, lingering kiss. Which Hobie wouldn't have minded under most circumstances. 

The rest of the week ran much the same. In front of the camera, Burt worked his ass off. Hobie worked double to keep up, and seemed to do okay--Mr. Seslum expressed great enthusiasm for his performance, while Burt gave him grim nods of approval. But as soon as the cameras were off, Burt would slip away. People found him crouched down in weird, hidden places on set, inspecting equipment. Or chain-smoking in the shadows. Or, on the rare occasions when he wasn't playing hide-and-seek with himself, they found him with his nose buried in _Darkness at Noon_ , deaf to the world until Mr. Seslum called for him. (Walt tapped Burt on the shoulder once while he was reading. No one dared make the same mistake after they all saw Burt burst up from his chair, book tossed aside, fists raised and ready. Nothing came of it. Just a tense three seconds before Walt laughed nervously and Burt followed suit with an even more forced chuckle.) And God forbid anybody stand too close to Hobie. One poor messenger boy had already been scared off by Burt's hard glare and harder questions. 

Hobie tried to be happy he had proof Burt was actually reading the dang book. The rest of his worries he worked out by doing the best job he could for Burt, Mr. Seslum, and everybody else dependin' on him for this here picture. 

Thursday rolled around, same as all the others. Burt was teachin' Hobie a new routine for the interlude, when the cowboy and the sailor finally shook hands and buried the hatchet. It required a dance where they started out tappin' and squaredancin' respectively, then slowly drew closer and closer to each other on deck until they met in the middle with modern. 

"Tap with your toe," Burt was telling him. "Then drag the ball back and click your heel down." 

Hobie watched the movement of Burt's foot, his brow furrowed in concentration. The bright studio lights cast a sharp black shadow on the stage floor. 

Then the shadow wiggled. 

Hobie frowned harder at it. When that failed to stop it, he turned his confused squint upward. It was hard to see past the blinding bulb, but it seemed like a grip was losing their grip, and the light was definitely wobbling. 

"Uh, Burt?" said Hobie. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hobie saw Burt glance up. Then Burt's elbow hit him in the gut. Hobie doubled over, winded. He offered no resistance as Burt shoved him with all the might his massive frame could muster. Hobie practically flew backwards and landed hard on his ass. He had just enough time to think he'd left all that nonsense behind with steer-bustin', and wondered what the hell Burt was playing at, when a deafening crash drove all such thoughts from his mind. 

In all, it'd taken maybe two seconds between Burt tossing Hobie out of the way, and the stage light falling down on Burt. 

The light hit the floor and exploded. Hobie threw his arms over his face, curled his legs into his stomach, instincts left over from his rodeo years. They served him just as well now. Glass shards and a whoosh of flame hit his shins and forearms. His ears filled with chorus of screams, from men and women alike, and panicked shouting. Between the denim and the flannel, Hobie escaped mostly unscathed--a little singed, a little cut up, but nothing life-threatening. 

The same couldn't be said for Burt. 

Hobie uncurled in a flash the moment the heat of the explosion retreated, his eyes already sweeping the stage for Burt. The wreck of the light--huge, enormous, which was crazy when it looked so small hanging from the ceiling--lay beside a red-and-white lump. Hobie squinted, his mind refusing to accept what he saw, until it hit him like a hoof to the face. The white was Burt's sailor uniform. The red was blood, soaking the duckcloth and staining it crimson. Burt lay on his side, his front to the light, his back to Hobie. The crimson stain was just now creeping around to the back of his shirt, and seeping out onto the floor in a puddle around him. Burt's crumpled form made a wretched contrast to the fluid vitality he'd displayed just seconds earlier. Hobie'd never seen him so still, save in sleep. 

Hobie shook his head to dismiss his horrified stare and crawled like a weevil possessed towards his... his... "Burt!" 

People--camera guys, Arne Seslum, the script girl--were already running to the scene, kneeling down around Burt, touching him gingerly, ripping off articles of clothing to staunch the blood. The script girl sacrificed her sweater to tuck under Burt's head. Several people shouted for an ambulance. 

All eyes were on Burt. Nobody was looking up. 

Hobie looked up, either instinct telling him to watch out for another light falling, or a muscle-memory plea to a God he'd never really questioned before now. He saw neither. But he did see a shadowy figure run along the catwalk behind the remaining lights to slip down the ladder. 

Hobie scrambled up, running before he could stand. "Hey! Get back here, you sonuvabitch!" 

The sonuvabitch paid him no heed. He hit the ground at a sprint, headed towards the doors. 

Hobie took off after him. He didn't know what he'd do when he caught the bastard. Tan his hide. Tar'n'feather him. Brand him. They hanged horse thieves in Texas. What this worthless yellow-bellied excuse for a man had done deserved far worse. 

The sonuvabitch was a youngish feller, sandy-haired, dressed in a sweater-vest and slacks same as at least five other guys on the soundstage. He slid like the snake he was, through the crowd, against the tide rushing towards the crash. But if he thought he could lose Hobie, he had another think comin'. 

Hobie dropped his hand to his belt as he ran and unhooked his lasso. The sonuvabitch had reached the doors and skidded to a halt to throw his full weight behind pulling them open. Hobie'd never been happier those damned things were so heavy. He swung his lasso over his head and flung it at the bastard. 

It looped around his neck. 

Hobie yanked it back with all his rage. It tightened like a noose around the sonuvabitch's throat. 

_Good_ , Hobie thought, a sadistic streak he didn't know he had bubbling up in him as the man gagged. Aloud, he shouted, "Somebody help me hog-tie this white-livered buzzard bait!" 

Without waiting to see if anybody answered his call, Hobie rushed forward to do it himself. He leapt on the sonuvabitch with all the fury of a stampede--the sonuvabitch struggled, kicking and flailing, but nothing worse than a steer or bronco ever did on the rodeo circuit. Hobie slammed his fist into the man's face, again and again, put his spurs in the man's ribs and his knees on his chest, 'til he stopped wrigglin' long enough for Hobie to get the rope around his wrists and ankles. By the time Walt and the assistant director arrived to assist, the fight was over. 

Hobie spat on the sonuvabitch. "So help me God, for ev'ry scratch you've given him, I'll give you and you're whole damn clan a hunnerd--"

A hand grabbed his wrist. Hobie tried to wrench his arm out of the grip, then realized his arm was in that position because he'd raised his fist to throw another punch, and that the hand on his wrist belonged to Walt, who was only being sensible. 

"Lemme go!" Hobie insisted anyway. 

Walt looped both arms under Hobie's and hooked 'em up behind Hobie's head, pinning him. "Easy, calm down--"

"You calm down!" Hobie kicked at the sonuvabitch. Walt dragged him back. A couple security guards rushed in to hold the sonuvabitch prisoner. Hobie couldn't help wonderin' where the fuck they'd been thirty seconds ago. 

The assistant director got in Hobie's face--dangerously close--and spoke in a soothing tone. "It's okay, Hobie, you got him, now just--holy shit you're bleeding!" 

Hobie glanced down, realized his wrists were dripping red, and decided he didn't care. "Where's Burt?" 

"Get another ambulance for Mr. Doyle!" the assistant director shouted. 

"I don't need a damn ambulance!" Hobie snapped. "Save it for Burt! Where is he? Is he gonna be okay?" He was twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, there weren't no good goddamned reason for his voice to be breakin' now--

Walt shushed him. The wail of approaching sirens overpowered whatever comforting words followed. Hobie's eyes burned. He blinked it back. This wasn't the time for cryin', this was a time for action. Violent action. Around him, he heard people talkin' about Communist spies and Soviet assassins and first-aid kits. He wished Walt would let him go. Burt needed him. Hobie tried flailin' again, and when that didn't work, he slumped, defeated. 


	14. Chapter 14

All was calm, all was bright. Burt blinked away the blurring in his vision, like Vaseline smeared on a camera lens. Everything stayed bright, but the focus grew sharper. White tiles in front of him--no, above him, because those were ceiling tiles, which meant he was lying on his back. The walls were also white. He looked down, ignoring how it made his head spin, and saw his clothes were white as well. A crisp white gown over his shoulders and chest, white sheets pulled tight over everything below his armpits, and a white metal bedframe down by his feet. Every breath he took reeked of antiseptic, and pulled at certain points in his chest, but the pain seemed somehow distant. 

"Hospital," he mumbled, congratulating himself on retaining his deductive reasoning despite the fog in his brain. "Cedars?" 

"Burt?" 

Burt rolled his head over towards the sound. At his bedside sat a handsome young man--square jaw, sharp cheeks, lean frame, dark brown curls crowning his bare head, a leather cowboy hat in his lap. Only pursed lips and a brow furrowed with concern marred his beautiful features. 

A grin crept over Burt's face like dawn over the sea. It pinched something in his cheek and forehead. He ignored it. "Hobie!" 

Half of Hobie's mouth twitched in what might've been an attempt to return the gesture. "How you feelin', pard?" 

"Fuzzy." Burt frowned, trying to figure out why his brain felt like mush, and what brought him to his hospital bed. He let his eyes wander over Hobie in the meantime, drinking in the welcome sight, lingering on those lean-yet-strong arms covered in plaid flannel, and on down to the tips of the tanned, callused hands. The wrists gave him pause. A little bit of white peeked out from the cuff of Hobie's sleeve, a scrap of linen, almost like a bandage. 

The memory hit him like another goddamn stagelight to the face. Panic strangled his voice as he struggled to rise. "Hobie!" 

"Whoa, there!" Hobie put those gentle hands on his shoulders. It didn't take much pressure to hold Burt in place. "None o' that, now! Y'ain't s'posed to move. Not for another week, at least. Take it easy." 

Burt's chest heaved, the distant pain coming closer with every gasp. "Your arm!" 

"Got banged up is all. Had worse on the rodeo circuit. Easy, now, I'm fine." 

"I'm sorry," Burt said, words pouring out of him like blood. "I should've kept you safe, I should've told you--"

"Yeah," said Hobie. "You should've." 

To Burt, it felt like the glass shards from the shattered stagelight had all clustered in his heart, and Hobie had reached out and given one of them a good twist. Worst of all, he deserved it. "I'm sorry." 

"I know." Hobie's mouth was set in a grim line, but he kept a hand on Burt's shoulder, and gave it a little squeeze. Burt focused on that point of contact. It was all he had left now. 

"Can I--" Burt wracked his brain for any way he could atone for his failure to tell Hobie the danger they were in, and everything else. "What can I do--"

"Y'can lie back and relax," Hobie said, patting his shoulder. "Don't worry about it until you've healed up some." 

Burt couldn't relax, not until he'd said the most important thing of all. "Hobie, I--"

Hobie squeezed his shoulder, hard, cutting him off, and jerked his chin across the room. Burt followed the gesture to the open door, beyond which two policemen waited. They faced the hallway, guarding against intrusion, but their ears could easily hear anything Burt said in the hospital room. Including a confession of illegal affection. Burt clammed up. 

Then Hobie looked back at Burt with a small, sad, yet sincere smile, and whispered, "I know. Me too." 

The knot in Burt's chest eased up some. Still, a change of subject seemed prudent. "What happened? After the light fell?" 

"Well, you got a gut fulla glass shards. Missed your abdom'nal artery though, so that's a blessin'. Ruined your sailor suit." Hobie paused, all trace of a smile gone. "Thanks for shovin' me outta the way." 

"Should've leapt on top of you, too," Burt muttered. "Shielded you from it." 

"I'm fine," Hobie insisted. "Thanks to you. So don't you go frettin' over woulda-coulda-shoulda's now." 

Burt, exhausted from painkillers and blood loss, figured it was easier to concede. "Then what?" 

Hobie's grim look hardened further than Burt would've supposed possible. "The no-good snake-in-the-grass what done it ran down from the catwalk. So I chased him. Walt pulled me off him afore I could give him what he deserved--"

"Ahem." 

Hobie clicked his jaw shut, his wide eyes focused on the door. Burt turned to follow his gaze and found a nice young nurse in a clean white dress... and an enormous man in a black suit behind her. Just as tall as Burt, but not as broad. Better armed, though, with that gun holster on his hip and that badge on his chest. 

Burt stared past the man's twice-broken nose into his cold blue eyes. "Agent Johnson." 

"Mr. Gurney," said the FBI agent in a voice like Mount Rushmore come to life. 

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Doyle," the nurse said sweetly. "But Mr. Gurney needs his rest." 

Burt, knowing full well he wouldn't get any, raised an eyebrow at Agent Johnson. Agent Johnson remained stone-faced. Hobie's eyes flicked from Burt to Johnson and back again, his jaw set and his eyes hard. He settled on Burt, his brow furrowed in a question. 

"It's okay," Burt told him. "See you tomorrow?" 

Hobie stood and tipped his hat before he put it on. "Y'can count on it." 

With another hat-tip to the nurse and the agent, Hobie left. The nurse swooped in to dispense pills into a paper cup, check the IV, and fluff his pillow. Burt thanked her, and she replied with a strained smile. She gave a final nervous look to Agent Johnson, then scurried out. Agent Johnson shut the door after her. 

Burt withheld an impatient sigh as Agent Johnson ambled back over to his bedside with wide, slow steps designed to intimidate whoever they approached. Even if Burt hadn't seen the act a thousand times before, he had too much morphine in his veins to fear Agent Johnson or anyone else. 

Agent Johnson came to a halt in front of the chair where Hobie had sat. "So, Mr. Gurney. Why don't you tell me what happened last Thursday." 

Burt wondered just how long he'd been out. Aloud, he said, "It's a long story. You might wanna take a seat." 

"I prefer to stand." 

Burt just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He took as deep a breath as his wounds allowed and launched into the tale, starting with the Russian submarine's failure to arrive--which he of course pinned on his success in converting Ivan to the capitalist cause--going on to tell of his continuing work within The Future and his eventual meeting with Ivan, culminating in the realization that Soviet assassins were after him. 

"Which you already know, since I called you and told you that same night," said Burt. "Can't help noticing your boys didn't do shit about it." 

"We were watching," said Agent Johnson. 

Burt very much doubted that. If it were true, he'd be in prison on sodomy charges by now. "Anyway, I kept an eye out myself, and it's a damn good thing I did, otherwise Capitol Pictures would be down a singing cowboy." 

"Do tell," Agent Johnson deadpanned. 

Burt gave a minute-by-minute, second-by-second account of the worst day of his life. He held back some details--how his heart had jumped into his throat when he saw the shadow behind the light; how he'd thrown that same heart into the shove he used to get Hobie out of the way; how the shards and flames had combined to cause him pain unlike anything he'd experienced in all his thirty-six miserable years, but he'd have done it ten times over just to know Hobie hadn't suffered the same. 

"I see," Agent Johnson said when Burt finished. "Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Gurney. We'll be in touch." 

Burt balked. "That's it? What about the assassin? Did you even bother--"

"We have the suspect in custody," said Agent Johnson. 

Burt had a hundred more demands to make of the recalcitrant agent, but the sound of a polite throat-clearing stopped him. The nurse had returned and cracked open the door to poke her head through. 

She glanced nervously between the two men, then settled on Agent Johnson. "I'm really very sorry, sir, but Mr. Gurney--"

"--needs his rest," Agent Johnson finished for her. He smiled. It wouldn't have looked out of place on the cover of a fan magazine, except for his frozen eyes. "I was just leaving. Sorry to have troubled you." 

"No trouble at all," the nurse replied in a rush, her own smile wavering. 

Agent Johnson tipped his fedora and departed. The nurse fiddled with Burt's IV drip. A wave of exhaustion passed over him, and he nodded off, finally getting some rest. 

When next he could open his eyes, he found Eddie Mannix in Agent Johnson's place, asking many of the same questions. Burt answered them all, accepted Mannix's perfunctory well-wishes, and drifted off again. His consciousness flowed in and out from there, meals of soup and gelatin interspersed with changing bandages and swallowing pills and receiving injections. Every time he came back to himself, he rolled his head over to the chair at his bedside. Sometimes it held Agent Johnson. Sometimes Mannix. Once it held Baird Whitlock, whispering urgently about the Communist agenda--Burt half-suspected he might've been a hallucination. 

Then, at long last, Burt opened his eyes and saw Hobie. His lips fell into an easy grin. 

Hobie returned it shyly. "How you holdin' up, pard?" 

"Fine," said Burt. "You?" 

"Fine." 

"FBI talk to you?" 

Hobie nodded. "All week." 

"What'd you tell them?" 

"The truth," said Hobie. When Burt's eyes flew wide, Hobie added, "I mean, about the stagelight and the assassin and the part where I roped him." 

Burt stared at his cowboy. Then he burst out laughing. Gasping, hacking, wracking laughs that hurt like hell but were more than worth it. 

"Easy now!" said Hobie, even as he chuckled along. 

"Roped him?" Burt echoed when he could breathe again. 

"They didn't tell you that?" 

"They didn't tell me shit. Gimme the whole story, now, c'mon." 

"I ain't much of a storyteller--" Hobie's face brightened in sudden inspiration. "Wait, here--" He reached behind himself to a nightstand overflowing with cards and flowers, including a towering bouquet of hyacinth. 

"Those from you?" Burt joked. 

"Shoot." Hobie shook his head. "Knew I forgot something. Naw, none from me, but Carlotta got you these roses, and Mr. Laurentz sent these... well, these." He gestured at the hyacinth. 

"Of course he did," Burt mumbled, smiling. Laurence would never dare visit in the flesh--particularly not with two policemen and a federal agent hovering on the scene--but hyacinth was his particular favorite. He'd compared Burt to it on more than one occasion. Burt considered the comparison tenuous at best, but appreciated the compliment. 

Hobie continued shuffling through the hopeless mess and retrieved a magazine and a newspaper. He held them out to Burt. "The Thackers--"

Burt took them and squinted at the print. The letters smeared together. He handed them back to Hobie. "Can you read it to me?" 

Hobie cheerfully obliged. 

According to Thessaly Thacker, "Hobie Doyle, America's favorite cowboy, displayed remarkable ingenuity and courage in roping the Communist menace like a wild steer." 

"Which is ridiculous," Hobie butted in, "because a steer's a bull with no stones, and you sure as shootin' don't find those in the wild. Plus she forgot to mention how I damn near broke m'hand on his dang jaw." 

"She said you punched him," Burt pointed out. 

"Yeah, but--whew!" Hobie shook out his hand theatrically, and continued reading. Thessaly's article went on in much the same vein. Evil Russian defeated by brave patriot, triumph of home-grown morality over Communist invasion, a proud day for all Americans, etc., etc., etc., stretched out over a thousand words. 

Thora Thacker, meanwhile, took a different approach to the exact same story. Hobie's courage got half a sentence. The rest of the page was devoted to emphasizing the severity of the red threat to Hollywood in particular and America as a whole. "How," she demanded to know, "did a Communist agent come so close to assassinating one of America's most treasured assets?" 

"Y'hear that?" Burt grinned. "I'm a treasured asset." 

"Already knew that," said Hobie. He didn't look up from the page to say it, which meant he missed the look of surprise Burt gave him in turn. "Funny, how she'll blame everybody from Trumbo to Warner but don't say a word about the part where the FBI was supposed to watch your back." 

"Careful," Burt murmured, flicking his eyes to the door. Agent Johnson had left, but the two beat cops remained. Neither seemed to be listening. Still, Burt didn't want to press their luck. 

Hobie grimaced and returned to the newspaper. "'Many stars have expressed their concern in light of this development, including Baird Whitlock, most recently seen in the Biblical epic _Hail, Caesar!_ Witnesses reported Mr. Whitlock as making repeated visits to the office of Mr. Mannix, and his shouts could be heard from the street. It seems Mr. Whitlock believes himself to be the next target in the Communist assault on Hollywood.'"

Burt groaned. 

Hobie folded the paper. "Maybe that's enough for now." 

"Sure," Burt agreed. "Any word on what'll happen to _Seafaring Cowboy_?"

Hobie's eyes widened. He tore the newspaper open again. "D'you like the funnies? 'Cause in the first box here, Popeye--"

"Hobie," said Burt. 

Burt watched the lump of Hobie's hard swallow travel down his throat. 

All the fears morphine had pushed aside fought their way to the front of Burt's mind. "They haven't... they didn't scrap it, did they?" 

Slowly, Hobie closed the newspaper. "No, no, they didn't do that. They're shutting down for a week while Mr. Mannix figures out security, and then... Well, they're talkin' about replacin' you." 

Burt expected as much, and was about to say so, but Hobie rushed on. 

"I told 'em we can't. I said we oughter wait an' see how you heal up. I know it's gonna be a while 'til y'can dance ag'in--"

Burt winced. 

Hobie flinched sympathetically. "--but y'can still do dialogue and whatnot. An' I know you'll be back in the saddle soon enough--"

"Hobie," Burt tried to interrupt. 

"--so I told 'em, it's either Burt Gurney or it ain't nobody at all. You lose Burt, you lose me. All or nuthin', that's what--"

"Hobie!" The force of the word made something in Burt's ribs twinge. 

Hobie clammed up, though he still wore a wide-eyed look of panicked desperation. 

"You're not quitting the picture," Burt insisted. Before Hobie could counter that, he asked, "Who are they looking at to replace me?" 

Hobie grimaced. "Gene Kelly, but--"

Burt almost choked. "Gene--! They're offering you a chance to co-star with Gene friggin' Kelly, and you're turning them down!?" 

"He ain't you!" Hobie protested. 

"No, he's better. Leagues better. The man could dance circles around me. His choreography is a revolution. Anyone with half a brain would drop a stagelight on me for a chance to work with him." 

"Burt!" Hobie looked genuinely horrified, and a bit sick. 

Burt reined it in. "My point is, you're damn lucky to be able to work with Gene. And Gene's lucky to work with you. He doesn't know it yet, but you'll show him soon enough. Besides, it's a hell of a compliment to me to have Gene Kelly for an understudy. Don't tell him I said that." 

Hobie clenched his jaw to stop its trembling. "Okay, Burt." 

"Good." Burt relaxed enough to let out a weary chuckle. Gene Kelly. Whose own wife had tried to join the Communist party. Small world. He couldn't help feeling a little smug about it. 

Hobie still didn't seem at ease. "Burt... y'are comin' back, right?" 

Burt's good humor drained. "I don't know." 

"Y'don't gotta worry, security'll be real good now, the Commies won't get another chance--"

"It's not that," Burt cut in. "It's my abdominals getting shredded to hell and back. And my legs atrophying while I wait around for everything to knit back together. And..." He gestured to his own face. He'd asked the nurses for a mirror a couple times, but they just smiled uncomfortably and made vague excuses, which was as good as a look at what the exploding stagelight had done. Running his hands over his face, he could feel bandages covering the left side from temple to jaw, with the cheek causing him the most pain when poked. Whatever remained under there wasn't movie-poster worthy anymore. 

"It's not that bad," said Hobie, but he wasn't a good enough actor to hide his grimace. 

Burt smiled. "Mannix already came by to tell me I was on suspension for the remainder of my contract." He had to raise his voice over Hobie's indignation to add, "It's okay. I don't mind. I'll figure something out. Open a dancing school, maybe." 

Hobie's jaw remained firmly clenched, but his eyes were shining. "In L.A., you mean?" 

"Probably. Or I could do choreography on Broadway." 

Hobie chewed the inside of his cheek. "Any room for a singin' cowboy on Broadway?" 

"You don't have to follow me," Burt began, but Hobie silenced him with a furious shake of his head. 

"Someone's gotta look after you," Hobie said, his voice low and firm. "No matter where you roam." 

Burt's eyes burned again, but not from the brightness of his surroundings. "You volunteering to be that someone?" 

"I ain't just volunteerin', I'm demandin'." 

Burt laughed, which doubled as cover for his leaking eyes. "Okay." 

"Good." Hobie opened the paper again, and Burt got his fill of the funnies whether he liked it or not. He did like the sound of Hobie's voice, testing out new accents but always coming back to his natural twang. Burt let his eyes fall shut to focus on it. 

"You awake?" Hobie asked some minutes later. 

"Yeah," Burt mumbled without opening his eyes. 

Hobie chuckled. "Think I'd better let you rest up." 

Burt grumbled in protest. Hobie just laughed at him and squeezed his hand. Burt heard the scrape of the chair against the floor as Hobie stood up. 

"Hobie," he said. "Can you do me a favor?" 

"Shoot." 

"Can you check on Engels?" 

"Don't you worry. Mr. Laurentz took him back to his place. Keeps callin' him 'darling little thing'. Plenty of snugglin'." 

Burt stifled a laugh. 

#

While production stopped on _Seafaring Cowboy_ and the rest of the Capitol Pictures lot, Hobie packed up Burt's books, clothes, and personal effects and moved them all to his Beverly Hills apartment. To the studio, they played it off as Burt tightening his belt in light of his suspension. Why keep paying rent in Malibu when his bachelor friend had a spare bedroom? It'd worked for Cary Grant and Randolph Scott. Mannix raised a skeptical eyebrow, but since Hobie kept kissing Carlotta every time a camera bulb flashed, there wasn't much he could do about it. 

The week after that, the studio sold off the furniture on Burt's behalf. Hobie spent his days on set and his evenings by Burt's bedside, filling him in on what it was like to work with a genuine Hollywood legend. Burt, meanwhile, re-learned how to walk. 

According to the doctors and nurses at Cedar, Burt's recovery proceeded with unprecedented speed. From Burt's perspective, it crawled. But six weeks saw him hobbling down the halls for physical therapy, and two weeks after that saw him ready to go home. Hobie picked him up from the hospital and brought him to Beverly Hills. 

There was a car waiting for them in the driveway when they pulled up. 

Burt tensed. He threw an arm in front of Hobie's chest as the other car's door opened. Hobie glanced down at the arm, then gave Burt a hapless smile. But Burt didn't relax until he recognized the slender, elegant figure emerging from the car as Laurence Laurentz, with Engels in his arms. Hobie hopped out of the driver's seat to open the passenger side door for Burt as Laurence approached. 

"My dear boy," said Laurence as Burt rose from the vehicle. "It's marvelous to see you well again." 

Burt smiled. "Likewise." 

Engels yapped. Burt held out his arms for him. Laurence handed the wriggling puppy over with a mournful twist to his lip. 

"You're gonna miss him, huh?" said Burt, holding Engels tight to his chest. Engels licked his chin. 

"Indeed," Laurence admitted. "But I'll not keep you. You need your rest." 

Burt refrained from rolling his eyes. If he had a nickel for every time he'd heard that phrase in the last two months... 

Laurence held out his hand for Hobie to shake. "Thank you for looking after him. I look forward to working with you again." 

Hobie's wide-eyed surprise was only a little masked by his enormous grin as he shook Laurence's hand. "Weren't nothin', pard! See you on the lot." 

Laurence gave a particularly expressive blink, then left them to it. As Laurence drove off, Hobie brought Burt up to the house. 

The sight of the stupid plaster cow skull on the wall filled Burt's heart with a disproportionate amount of joy. He let Engels jump to the floor to explore his new home. Burt eased himself down onto the couch. 

"You're not really gonna make me sleep in the guest room, are you?" he called to Hobie in the kitchen. 

"Naw," said Hobie, coming into the living room with a glass of water and a saucer full of Burt's pills. Burt made a face at them. Hobie spoke on. "But we need to talk." 

Burt raised an eyebrow. "Okay." 

Hobie put the tray down on the coffee table, sat down next to Burt, took a deep breath, and turned to look him full in the eye with a solemn expression. "I love you." 

Burt knew it, of course. He'd known it months ago. Even so, hearing aloud made him happy enough to pirouette across the apartment. He settled for replying, "I love you, too." 

Hobie nodded. "Okay. Cross that off the list. Next, politics." 

Burt groaned. So much for his good mood. 

Hobie ignored it. "Now, like I said afore, I read everythin' y'gave me. And you're right. Capitalism ain't all it's cracked up to be. But these Russian fellas are real pieces o' work. An' I'm startin' to think they follow Mr. Marx about as well as Senator McCarthy." 

"Agreed," said Burt. "No more USSR. I'm done with it." 

Hobie, whose mouth still hung open to expound upon the point, shut his jaw with a surprised click. "Well, all right, then. In that case, there's just the one thing left." 

"What's that?" 

Hobie reached a hand up to run it over the scarred half of Burt's face, then leaned in to kiss him. Deep and slow and soft. Burt relaxed--truly relaxed, without chemical aid, without putting on an act for the FBI or the USSR or the studio or anybody. He let Hobie lay him back against the couch and eagerly opened himself up to his honest cowboy affection. No more secrets. 

"Damn right," said Hobie, and Burt realized he'd murmured that last thought aloud. "Next time some red assassin comes for us, you tell me about it." 

Burt laughed and pulled him in tight for another kiss. "You got it, pard." 


End file.
